


Somniari

by edibleflowers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dreams, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4587669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian Pavus's recurring dreams didn't mean anything -- or so he thought, until he found out he wasn't the only one having them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want to give too much away right now; however, I will say that this is a modern setting with the DA races existing as they do in Thedas. Humans, Qunari, elves, and dwarves all exist side-by-side. Magic does not work, though, and the locations relate to our world rather than Thedas.
> 
> While I've rated this as Teen & Up since most of the content is non-explicit, there is some explicit content later in the fic. The chapter will be rated accordingly (or else I'll change the rating when I get there, ha. We'll see). This fic is complete; I will be posting a chapter every few days. (This thing started out as a stupid little idea, how it got to be so big I will never know...)
> 
> I finally gave in and let myself use Aravel's real name, by the way. In other fic I've posted, I changed his name to Aranel; but his name in the game is Aravel, and I'm sticking with it from now on. Don't tell me it's the name of the Dalish landships, please: _I KNOW_.
> 
> As always, so many thanks to my BFF lemniskate, who helped me out with reading and making suggestions even though she doesn't know the first thing about Dragon Age (except for being able to recognize "twirly mustache guy" from Tumblr). Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU.

"Get with it, Dorian," Felix Alexius hissed. With a jolt, Dorian Pavus sat upright in his chair and reached for the cup of coffee by his keyboard. Felix's timing couldn't have been better: even as Dorian took a sip of his lukewarm coffee, Gereon Alexius passed through the outer room into his private office. Though the man hadn't looked around, Dorian knew from experience that the lecturer's peripheral gaze would take in every detail around him, including whether his research assistants were working hard or slacking off on the Internet.

"Thanks," Dorian said, with a grateful nod to Felix.

"Had another dream, did you?" Across the desk from him, Felix smirked behind his own coffee mug. By way of answer, Dorian scowled and refocused on his monitor. He could practically feel Felix watching him, though, amused smile still firmly in place.

"Long one, last night," he admitted at last. 

With a grin, Felix leaned forward. "What happened this time? Were you still in that desert place?"

"The Approach, yes." Dorian closed his eyes for just a moment, reliving the vivid images of last night's dream. Hot sands under a blazing sun, the occasional crumbling structure of brick and sandstone marking paths hundreds of years old; huge hyenas and prowling lizardlike creatures stalking every step... and strangest of all, himself among a party of adventurers like something out of Dungeons & Dragons. 

"God, _still_?" Felix rolled his eyes. "How the hell long are you going to be there, anyway?"

"At least a couple more weeks, it looks like." Dorian idly twirled a pen in his fingers. "Aravel wanted to do a little more exploring once the keep was secured."

Felix's eyes widened at the mention of the keep; Dorian was obliged, then, to describe the capture of said keep, a stronghold that had been taken by some of the enemy's cultists -- magic-users calling themselves Venatori, who hailed from the same land Dorian did in the dream world.

That was perhaps the strangest circumstance of the dreams he'd discovered yet: not only did they carry over from one night to the next, in an unbroken string dating back several months now, but the world in which he spent his dreams had its own deep history that Dorian had only barely touched on while adventuring in his sleep.

From the first morning he'd awoken from one of the most realistic dreams he'd ever had, Dorian had barely been able to credit his sleeping imagination. In the dream world, an explosion had split the skies open, tearing a hole in the very fabric of the Veil to allow demons from the Fade -- some sort of otherworldly dimension -- into the "real" world. Dorian (whose dream-self mostly resembled his waking self, though there he was a mage and the son of a rich mage-lord) had fled his homeland, the Tevinter Empire, as much to escape his family as to lend what aid he could to some new group calling itself the Inquisition. He'd idly begun to tell Felix about the dreams one morning when he could barely stir himself to focus on his work; ever since, Felix had hung eagerly on each detail.

Especially that of--

"So is your Inquisitor still flirting with you?" Felix teased.

"He's not _my_ Inquisitor," Dorian muttered, trying to ignore the flush across his face. Of all the idiotic things he'd done in his life, this one had to take the cake: Dorian seemed to have fallen in love with someone who only existed in his dreams.

"I'm telling you," Felix said as he turned back to his work at last. "You should look this guy up, see if he exists."

"Because _that_ wouldn't be at all stalkery," Dorian muttered, relieved to have Felix's attention turned away from him. "It's just a dream, anyway."

"What about when Dad and I showed up? At that place, where was it--"

"Redcliffe," Dorian said without thinking, and then scowled at Felix's renewed smirk. "I still don't think it meant anything."

"Sure hope not." Felix gave a little shudder. "I don't need to be dying of some long-term illness, thanks."

"Wouldn't like to see your father turning evil either, I'm guessing?" Dorian raised an eyebrow. Felix snickered.

"Not so sure he isn't--" Felix cut off abruptly as the door to his father's office opened again and Alexius emerged, this time carrying a stack of file folders and books clearly intended for the pair of them.

In truth, Dorian didn't know what to make of the dreams. They had been fun and diverting at first, even though he often woke as tired as if he'd truly been fighting demons and bandits all night. The involvement of people he knew shone an eerie light on the whole phenomenon, though. He supposed he could see where his mind would cast Gereon Alexius, a senior lecturer of linguistics at Oxford, as a villain: Alexius was tough with his students and stubborn about his research, and he could certainly be intimidating to hapless undergrads; despite that, he was a good man at heart, who doted on his son and still mourned his wife. Weirder still, though, was how Felix had appeared -- noble, of course, and strong -- but all the same infected with an incurable wasting disease.

And why was the rest of the dreamworld largely populated by people he didn't know, save Alexius, Felix and a few others (his parents among them, though he tried not to think about that)? The variety of strangers making up the Inquisition nonetheless _felt_ real despite their clearly imaginary status -- from the huge horned Qunari calling himself The Iron Bull to the amiable dwarf, Varric Tethras, he'd gotten to know them all over the course of months of utterly fictional adventuring. Dorian was beginning to think he should see a psychologist to find out if he was actually suffering a complete mental break or simply needed a few months by the seaside to de-stress.

Shaking his head, Dorian turned to the stack of papers Alexius had set down on his desk and forced himself to forget about the dreams for at least the rest of the work day.

* * *

Felix suggested getting together at the nearest pub on the way home, but Dorian declined; alcohol was unlikely improve his mood at all, let alone loud afternoon crowds cheering at whatever sports match was currently going on. 

Once he'd thrown together a quick dinner in his flat's tiny kitchen, Dorian sat down at the desk with his plate and notebook to scrawl down as much as he could remember of the previous night's dream. Felix had been the one to suggest Dorian record the dreams just in case he decided eventually to talk to someone about them. Though Dorian hadn't cared for the idea at first, now he was glad he'd begun. He'd gone through three notebooks now; sometimes there wasn't much to report, long days of traveling or nothing but fighting. Other dreams, though -- like last night's, with the exhaustive battle to capture Griffon Wing Keep (where did his mind come up with these names, anyway?) -- required a lot of time and description. Eating his curry mechanically, Dorian recorded what he could remember of last night's dream in his quick, neat hand.

He could use the computer, he supposed, but there was something about writing by hand that he preferred: crisp paper smooth under his hand, ink flowing easily from the fountain pen to recount his memories. Today the words came quickly as he recalled the battle: they'd surprised the guards outside the keep first, a quick ambush that left the Venatori sprawled dead in the sand. Between the four of them (Aravel and Cassandra at the forefront with their swords, Varric's crossbow backing them up -- Dorian made a side note to look up crossbows and see if there was such a thing as a repeating crossbow or if he'd just seen one in a film somewhere -- and himself in the rear, wildly flinging fire from his fingertips and staff), they'd knocked in the keep's front door and proceeded to methodically terminate every living soul inside, from the soldiers to the mage in charge. He'd been difficult, Dorian recalled, using some spell to jump from one place to another and keeping the warriors chasing after him. Strangely, the violence hadn't bothered him one bit in the dream; recalling it now only left him feeling as if he'd watched a video game or film. 

After the fighting, they'd explored the keep while waiting for Inquisition soldiers to join them. (Dorian wondered sometimes why they didn't have a few more of those handy soldiers helping them during battles, but as he was unable to influence the events of the dreams, he eventually had to shrug and let the thought go.) The keep's well had been utterly ruined -- apparently the Venatori thought a good way to dispose of bodies was to toss them into it -- but they'd made note of ore deposits in the rocks below for Inquisition miners to extract, and in a side room they'd found and activated another of the artifacts Solas prized so. 

Dorian sat back, rubbing his fingers over his mustache and reading over what he'd written. Surely he'd read all this somewhere. A series of novels from when he was young, perhaps? Some obscure film? There was no other logical explanation for the breadth and scope of the world he dreamt in. Some of the elements were standard fantasy fare: magic, spirits, darkspawn, a dimension of demons called the Fade, dragons (and oh, how that had scared the living shit out of Dorian the first time they'd seen one from afar). It was the combination that didn't fit anywhere else: Tevinter, Fereldan, Orlais, the Free Marches -- the world itself, Thedas. If there was a basis for all this, it was either so obscure the books were no longer in print, or else a complete figment of his imagination. He'd researched online, sought out used booksellers in hope they might recognize the fantasy world from some long-gone author -- all to no success. 

Perhaps he was going mad. It would certainly explain how he'd fallen in love with a person who didn't actually exist.

With a sigh, Dorian leaned forward to continue the entry. He felt reluctant to continue, even in a journal he intended to share with no one; his late talks with Aravel were private, for the two of them alone. And they'd had another one of those last night, once the tents had been set up in the keep's cleared courtyard, the open door temporarily boarded against any beasts that might investigate their fires. Varric had rolled himself into his blankets early, while Cassandra sat close to the fire to read (she'd waited until Varric was asleep to take out the book, which made Aravel smile and share a knowing glance with Dorian). Further back, Aravel had removed his armor and was oiling the straps and buckles, patiently going over every piece to make sure it was in perfect working shape. Even now, Dorian smiled to think of it. The armor had been crafted by Harritt, back at Skyhold; any number of scratches and dents marred the fine metal now, but the stuff still held up, thank the Maker. 

( _The Maker_. Dear God, Dorian was even thinking in the dreamworld's terminology now.)

While Aravel worked on his armor, Dorian had taken apart his staff to tend to it. He didn't _need_ it to use magic, true, but as an accessory it functioned like an extra limb, helping him focus and direct the energies he drew from the Fade. The two of them worked in companionable silence for a time, but as sunset gave way to a deep, still night, Aravel finally put aside his armor and merely sat gazing, Dorian thought, into the fire.

"Copper for your thoughts," Dorian had said at last, an eyebrow rising. 

"Mm. Just thinking that I'd like to see if we can head any farther north tomorrow. Once the troops arrive, that is." Aravel's grey eyes were dark, the firelight blazing gold across his brown skin. As he had so many times, Dorian paused in the midst of his task to admire the elf's even features, the play of light bringing out gilt highlights in his dark chestnut hair.

With a cough, he returned to his task, not wanting the Inquisitor to think he'd been staring. "Knight-Captain Rylen's been dispatched, hasn't he? I'm sure they'll be set up in no time." 

"He's frighteningly efficient, yes." Smiling, Aravel reached for his canteen to take a long drink -- they'd have to find a new water source in the morning, or else backtrack to the oasis they'd stopped at three days ago -- and then set it aside to begin removing his boots. "But with him in place here, we can see what else we can accomplish before we head back to Skyhold."

"Aren't you worried about what the Wardens are doing?" Dorian asked. A last twist, and he had the staff blade in place once more. Satisfied with his work, he set the staff aside, where it would be close at hand should they be attacked in the night.

Aravel's face grew serious. "Of course. But Hawke won't be traveling much faster than us on the way back to Skyhold, and perhaps we can find something that will help us should we have to fight at Adamant."

"You just enjoy dragging me all over creation and making sure I keep finding sand in new and interesting places. Admit it." Dorian glanced at Aravel with a smile now; while he knew how seriously Aravel took his task, he didn't like seeing that grim look on his friend's face.

His friend. Was that all the Inquisitor was to him..? _Stop it,_ he scolded himself, and began to remove his own boots in preparation for sleep. When he glanced up again, he was relieved to see the hint of a smile at the corner of Aravel's mouth, sweetening, softening his expression.

"I'm sure those are some interesting places indeed," Aravel murmured, and Dorian felt himself go warm under his sunburn. 

Thinking back on the dream now, Dorian made himself jot a few lines to summarize the evening before closing the notebook and setting the pen down. He drew in a breath, squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, taking in the plain surroundings of his flat: the kitchen, a small lounge that doubled as his dining room, the door to his lonely bedroom. Sometimes, he had to admit, he didn't really _want_ to come back from the dream world. He hadn't been in a relationship in nearly two years now, and that, with the handsome if not terribly bright Edin Abrexis, had been mostly sexual in nature. Not to mention the fact that he'd done it mostly to piss off his father. Maybe it was time to try and find someone else for more than one night of mindless semi-satisfaction.

Before he could think about it, Dorian reached for his laptop and opened a browser, typed _Aravel Lavellan_ into the search box. 

"What am I doing," he said aloud, staring at the screen. He hadn't hit return yet; the name just stared back at him from the page, cursor blinking expectantly. "This is insane," he said, and got up, walked away from the desk.

After a minute he came back and hit _enter_.

* * *

_"Dorian, are you all right?"_

_"I'm perfectly fine," he snapped, and then shook his head after a moment and glanced across the table to Lavellan. "Just a little tired. Sorry."_

_"I heard you muttering in your sleep, Sparkler," Varric put in from where he was wolfing down a plate of the stuff that passed for food out in the middle of nowhere. "Bad dreams?"_

_Dorian inhaled, let the hot breath out again. It would hardly do to alienate the few companions he had, especially with weeks of travel ahead of them. "I don't remember them," he said finally, taking a deep drink from his canteen. "But I assume so, yes."_

_"Makes me glad I don't have dreams." Varric gave him an expressive smile. "You humans might be able to cast spells and all that flashy stuff, but I'm not so sure the trade-off is worth it."_

_Grateful for Varric's change in topic, Dorian made himself finish the food on his plate. It wasn't much to taste, but he'd gotten somewhat used to travel rations, dried beef and biscuit with some sort of gravy to make it palatable, in the past few months. He really did need the energy; he hadn't slept well at all last night, and he couldn't even put it off to sleeping on stone, since that had been the case ever since they left the settled part of Orlais for this vast expanse of nothingness. They hadn't made it far in today's exploration before being forced to turn back: poisonous clouds of gas and dust prevented them from moving further north, while darkspawn had boiled up eastward from some unknown source in sufficient numbers to make Cassandra openly wish Blackwall had come along instead of her._

_"We'll return to Skyhold," Aravel said now, as he had when they'd initially returned to the keep. "I'm going to see if we can have anything done about the gas springs. Capping them, maybe."_

_"There must be some way to travel to that Tevinter prison," Cassandra agreed. "If we get in there, we might be able to find a way around those locked gates."_

_Dorian rubbed his eyes and looked down at his plate. More traveling in this repellent desert? Perhaps he'd see if he could persuade the Inquisitor to bring Solas instead--_

_A slight bump against his thigh made him look up. Below Cassandra and Varric's conversation across the table, Aravel was giving him a quiet, private smile._

_Perhaps another few weeks in the Western Approach wouldn't be so bad, after all..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fiddled just a little with some of the game dialogue in this chapter to make it flow better. A few lines, if that. Also, for anyone interested in a visual of Aravel, I've put up some screencaps [here](http://ghostoftheyear.tumblr.com/post/114393751157/aravel-lavellan-was-the-second-dai-character-i).

He didn't want to bring it up, but there must have been something telling in his eyes when he got into the office the next morning. Felix was already there (no surprise, he came in with his father), a coffee solicitously set out at Dorian's workstation.

"You found him," Felix said before Dorian had even set down his laptop bag. "You did, didn't you?"

With a groan, Dorian sat and drew himself up the desk, reaching for his coffee. Felix's eyes were wide, hopeful; Dorian gave in and nodded before taking a sip from the paper cup.

"You did!" Felix crowed, then hunched his shoulders and glanced to make sure there was no reaction from the inner office. The door remained closed and Felix leaned in with an eager grin. "Who is he? Does he live around here?"

By way of answer, Dorian thumbed his monitor on and brought up the browser, typed in the name he'd found last night and clicked a link. A moment later, a little slower than on his flat's Internet connection, a website came up: on a black background, harshly slanted letters across the top declaring that this was the homepage of The Inquisition. At the same time, a video loaded; hastily, Dorian muted it before the music began, remembering how loud and angry the pounding guitars and drums had been when he'd listened to it last night.

Below the title appeared a list of tour dates, links to websites where their music could be purchased, reviews, a blog, Twitter posts -- and images of the band. That was what had thrown Dorian rather badly last night; even now, looking at the pictures, he had to swallow hard. There was the Iron Bull, the gigantic Qunari, only he was holding a guitar carved to resemble a double-bearded axe rather than an actual weapon; Sera, the wild-card elf archer, holding a pair of drumsticks with her tongue stuck out suggestively between the tips; Warden Blackwall, with the same distinctively-shaped beard but wearing a plaid shirt instead of his padded gambeson, a bass guitar held protectively to his chest; Cole, perhaps not a spirit but his face still obscured by a huge floppy hat, all but hidden behind a rack of keyboards. And with one slender hand curled around an old-fashioned microphone, a guitar slung casually over a bared shoulder, long chestnut hair cascading around his high-cheekboned face -- Aravel Lavellan, the compelling and charismatic lead singer of the band.

"Holy _shit_ ," Felix said, quiet. "You never said he was in _The Inquisition_!"

"I didn't _know_ ," Dorian hissed. "I don't follow this stuff, you know that--"

"The Inquisition." Felix shook his head and sat back in the chair he'd dragged around to Dorian's side of the desk. "Mate, they are huge. _Huge_. Do you get that?"

"Sort of." Dorian rubbed his forehead, glanced at Felix, then back at the picture, clicking on it so that it filled the monitor. He knew every freckle on that face, the scatter of them across that strong nose, the sweep of those fine arched eyebrows. The left side of Aravel's head was shaved, just as he kept it in the dreamworld, rough braids sweeping behind a long tapered ear to trail down the side of his neck. Dorian hadn't so much as touched him yet, but he'd imagined kissing those full lips, teasing the tip of his tongue inside...

The sound of rolling casters jarred him out of fantasy; Felix was pushing back to his side of the desk. "This proves something," he said, an eyebrow cocked.

"It doesn't prove a damned thing." Dorian shook his head and minimized the browser. He'd already wasted too much time on this today.

* * *

For a while after that, at least, Felix quieted down about the dreams. It helped that there wasn't much to report, either: travel and adventure sounded exciting in a novel or work of fantasy, but Dorian's dreams seemed to be solely made up of tedious horseback-riding, bland meals and bad weather for a few weeks solid. Whoever had laid out the roads in Thedas certainly hadn't done so with sightseeing in mind. 

The group traveled back toward the Frostback Mountains -- from the extreme heat of the desert to the chilly mountain climate; at least the change in temperature was gradual. What would have taken Dorian a day's travel by car or train was instead a full couple of weeks on horseback (and none of the exciting galloping around, either: they had to travel at a leisurely pace so as to not overtax the mounts). At least there were inns as they passed back into Orlais, and inns meant beds with mattresses, hot meals, ale -- and _baths_. (Even in these dreams, Dorian ruefully noted, his tastes were undeniably posh.)

And then they were trudging up the high pass to Skyhold's outer entrance, and Dorian marveled all over again at the beauty of the structure, solid and intimidating and strong, a true fortress the way Haven never could have been. Repairs to the long-abandoned castle had begun the moment they'd arrived to occupy it, and now he could see changes in effect: collapsed walls had been cleared away to open up a lower courtyard and the stables, the tavern was open and doing a roaring business, lodging had been found for all the Inquisitor's inner circle -- and the Inquisitor himself, of course. Once again, on waking, Dorian wondered where his mind could have conjured up such a beautiful space. He'd toured a few ruined or half-restored castles around England and Scotland, the country being fairly lousy with them, but none of those piles, however charming, could compare to Skyhold's vibrance.

Dorian found a certain amusement in the awareness that he was as obsessed with books in the dream world as he was in real life. A request for various tomes had been filled in his absence, and he spent several contented hours opening crates and sorting books in the little alcove he'd claimed as his private space in Skyhold's atrium. At least there was one aspect of his life he could control here.

* * *

_I should have seen this one coming,_ he wrote a few days later, hand only shaking a little. _Dear old Daddy had to show up in all this shit sooner or later._

He'd wondered, at different times, if either of his parents would make an appearance. It'd be fitting: his father haunted his life even after Dorian had cut him out of it; naturally he had to be part of this dream nonsense too.

 _Still at Skyhold--_ (he continued to write, once he'd taken a few deep breaths) _~~Aravel~~ the Inquisitor had business to attend to, troop movements to oversee with Cullen, some noble Orlesian guests to entertain. His least favorite part of all this, he assured me. I believe it. His clan (Dalish, I think, is the term) never stayed in one place for long, and they certainly were never received by anyone of rank wherever they went. (Apparently Tevinters use elves and other races as slaves. That is  my least favorite part of all this.)_

_He finds moments here and there to spare for me, though. Comes up to see how my collection is growing, likes to ask me about Tevinter: its Chantry, the way magisters rule there, that sort of thing. He guessed I'd had a fling with Felix in that world (of course I hadn't; Felix was as straight there as he is in real life). I'm starting to believe my interest isn't nearly as one-sided as I'd imagined -- something about his smile when I denied it, like he was relieved._

_At any rate, when he brought the letter to me, I assumed it was something silly and flirtatious. Should have known from the tone of his voice and from the quality of the paper. Turns out Halward Pavus disapproves of ~~my~~ Dorian's choice to join up with the Inquisition and has sent a family retainer to drag him back home. Probably by the ear._

_Aravel thinks we should go and confront him. At least hear what he has to say. I suppose it's not the worst idea in recorded history. It's strange, though. This is all some kind of mad ongoing or recurring dream, but the pain is still real and present, or at least it feels that way on waking._

After a long moment, he made himself add a final note to the entry:

_Felix passed away of the Blight._

* * *

He was back in Redcliffe village two nights later -- the moment he shut his eyes to sleep, it seemed. It had been only a couple of days' ride from Skyhold, down the mountain paths and around Lake Calenhad to the village on its southern shore; with only him and Aravel, they traveled quickly, and all too soon, they were trotting into the village they'd recently freed from Tevinter control. (From Alexius's control, though Dorian didn't want to think about that.) The people certainly seemed indifferent to the Inquisitor's presence, though as he slid off his horse and handed the reins to a liveryman, Dorian did note that people weren't avoiding them or eyeing the two of them warily. 

His pleasure at the semi-positive reception lasted until he and Aravel stepped through the door of the tavern. The last time they'd been here, the common room bustled, buzzed with conversation and music. Now it was utterly empty, not even a barman or serving girl there to greet them.

A sense of dread crept over Dorian; he glanced back at Aravel, who nodded in return, prepared for an attack. Then he heard his father's voice speaking his name, and Dorian realized they were in for a different sort of ambush.

 _I should have known,_ he wrote the next morning, rubbing his aching forehead with his free hand. _Father is just as fucking disappointed in me for being gay in this fantasy world as he is in real life. Thank you very much, brain. Couldn't just one thing be better? Oh no. No, it's actually even worse in the dreams, because instead of packing me off to some conversion therapy bullshit, apparently they were going to use fucking blood magic to make me compliant. Which I'm sure Father would have used here if it existed._

"I only wanted what was best for you," Halward Pavus had said, weakly, when Dorian confronted him on it: that was when Dorian snapped.

"You wanted the best for _you_ ," he snarled. "For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!"

The strange thing was the way his father just stood there and took it. When he ran out of steam, Dorian turned away, breathing hard, waiting for the cruel words, the cutting remark. But his father said nothing. Dorian moved to the nearby counter and leaned hard on it, trying to regain a measure of calm.

Aravel stepped up quietly next to him, a solid, supportive presence. "Don't leave it like this, Dorian," he'd murmured. "You'll never forgive yourself."

In those soft words, Dorian had found the strength to turn back to his father, to approach him again. "Tell me why you came," he asked. Anger shook his voice still, though he tried to repress it.

"If I had known I would drive you to the Inquisition--"

"You didn't!" He couldn't help the outburst. Was Halward really that short-sighted? "I joined the Inquisition because it's the right thing to do. Once--" He swallowed hard. "Once, I had a father who would have known that."

Suddenly the room was too stuffy, too close. He had to get out. He'd nearly made the door when his father spoke again.

"Once I had a son who trusted me -- a trust I betrayed," Halward said, his voice curiously soft with something like regret. "I only wanted to talk to him, to hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me."

Nothing else would have surprised Dorian more. Halward Pavus admitting he was wrong? Bewildered, genuinely torn, Dorian looked at last to the Inqusitor. Aravel nodded toward his father: _go to him_. If Aravel was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt... As Aravel made his way to the door, Dorian turned back to his father.

He hadn't dreamed this moment could be possible in his lifetime. To sit at a table with his father, to talk -- if somewhat stiffly -- about what Dorian was trying to accomplish in the Inquisition. To accept, even tentatively, that Halward was genuinely sorry for what he had attempted to do. When he left, an hour later, he'd still felt shaken. They hadn't discussed how his father had kept him confined or why; nonetheless, Halward wasn't going to try to drag Dorian back home, nor would he further press the issue of marriage. He even agreed that the Inquisition was doing the right thing, that they deserved some recognition and support from Tevinter. Most importantly, Dorian thought, his father mentioned nothing of Aravel. Perhaps he was merely withholding the spiteful comments for a better time; even so, Dorian counted that a victory.

He and Aravel rode back to Skyhold in relative silence. One thing Dorian had come to truly appreciate about the elf was his respect for others' feelings, which Dorian supposed was part of being raised in a close-knit clan where everyone knew everyone else. When they set up camp that evening, Aravel quietly went to hunt up some dinner while Dorian made the fire; they ate roasted hare without much commentary. Afterwards, Dorian was tempted to invite Aravel to share a bedroll, but the Inquisitor curled up in his blankets before Dorian could say a word. In the last flickering light of the fire, before Dorian snuffed it, he saw a soft smile on Aravel's face.

Dorian was beginning to wonder if he truly wanted to meet Aravel Lavellan in real life. He wasn't sure anyone could measure up to the person his dreaming mind had created.

* * *

"Oi, mate, look out," Felix said, catching Dorian's arm. Blinking at him, Dorian stopped and looked up. He'd been about to step off the pavement, unaware of the car zooming through the intersection. 

Stepping back, Dorian inhaled sharply. "Thanks," he muttered, a hand over his chest. He could feel his heart going a mile a minute from the near-accident.

"You've been out of it all morning," Felix said. The light changed, and they crossed; hitching his bag over his shoulder, Dorian gave Felix a rueful glance.

"That obvious?"

Felix snorted. "I was starting to think I needed to put you on a leash or something. What happened last night?"

"Nothing," Dorian said, and made a face at Felix's skeptical look. "Nothing, I swear. They're still heading back to Skyhold. Should get there sometime today. Tonight. Whatever."

"'They', huh?" Felix chuckled. "When you change pronouns like that, it makes me think something happened."

Dorian scowled. "You mean aside from a confrontation with my father that nearly ended in violence?" Which wasn't so far from a description of the last time he'd seen his father in real life, come to think of it.

"All right, all right. Just makes me think you're looking forward to getting to sleep tonight," Felix said.

Dorian couldn't reply to that. He didn't want to admit it was true.

* * *

Naturally, it felt like it took him forever to fall asleep that evening. He shifted from laying on one side to the other, then to his back. The duvet felt heavy over him; when he pushed it back, he was too cold. He felt wide awake, his mind racing, even though he hadn't had a drop of caffeine since before noon. Finally, he managed to find a comfortable position, relieved to feel himself dropping off at last.

His patience was rewarded almost at once: they had returned to Skyhold, where Aravel was met at the bailey gate by a near-frantic Josephine. Apparently some minor noble from Orlais had arrived in their absence, insistent on meeting the Inquisitor; they had been making a fuss ever since. Dorian gave Aravel a rueful smile and took his horse's reins as Josephine practically dragged Aravel away. He probably wouldn't even get a chance to clean up or change, poor fellow.

For his part, once he'd returned the horses to the care of Master Dennet, Dorian decided he wanted nothing more than to be left alone for the day. He neatly evaded Varric, who was clearly curious about what had transpired in Redcliffe, and made his way up to his quarters without running into anyone else. A quick wash and a change of clothes later, he went back to his little alcove in the atrium to see what needed to be organized.

And stayed by the window, gazing blindly out into the sunny courtyard, unable to make himself move a muscle.

Around him, Skyhold bustled with activity. Leliana's ravens made their usual unholy racket as they winged their way to their mistress with messages; spies and scouts came and went with reports. Across the way from him, Helisma and her fellow researchers pored tirelessly over some recent artefacts that had been brought in from the Hinterlands; below, Solas had begun laying out the lines for another of his fresco pieces, humming tunelessly as he worked. From his vantage point, Dorian could see nearly all of Skyhold's courtyard: the tavern outside which Scout Harding and the former quartermaster, Threnn, chatted in the shade; a fenced-off area for Cullen's troops to practice their fighting techniques; the open doors of the armory and the smoke rising from the fires within. Scouts paced the battlements where the Inquisition's banners fluttered in the wind; along the western wall, another tower was covered in scaffolding in anticipation of restoration. Somehow, in a short amount of time, Skyhold had become comfortable and familiar to him: almost -- almost -- a home.

If anywhere could be a home, he supposed, this could be it. A temporary one, to be sure. Nonetheless, with the Inquisition he had been accepted, albeit grudgingly at first, and he had found a place, carved a niche for himself. Here, he'd managed working relationships with a Qunari spy, a surfacer dwarf from Kirkwall, a Seeker of the southern Chantry, a spirit of compassion who'd made himself flesh to help those in need. He'd found purpose in providing research and information for the Inquisitor and his advisors; in admittedly small ways, he hoped, he was proving that Tevinter still had redeemable qualities, that his country hadn't entirely gone to shit.

It might mean he'd never be able to return to his parents' house. So be it. Dorian knew better than to hope that one civil conversation with his father would restore order and happiness to their family. If he were honest with himself, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to forgive what Halward Pavus had thought to do to him. Even now, the thought depressed him, made him wish for something very strong to drink.

He didn't know how long he'd been standing there when he heard the soft footstep, a leather boot on stone: a familiar sound, one that had already engraved itself in his memory. Aravel didn't speak or approach, but it was enough to know he was there.

"He says we're alike. Too much pride," he said without turning, answering the unspoken question. "Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now I'm not certain. I don't know if I can forgive him."

"He tried to change you?" Aravel asked.

"Out of desperation. I wouldn't put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside." Dorian took a breath, let it out slowly. "He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me... acceptable." Tersely, he added, "I found out. I left."

"Can blood magic actually do that?"

Aravel sounded concerned. Dorian didn't blame him. "Maybe," he replied. "It could also have left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal. Part of me has always hoped he didn't really want to go through with it. If he had..." He shook his head. "I can't even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn't like that Dorian."

"Are you all right?" Aravel's voice, gentle, held real concern.

To anyone else, Dorian might have lied, said something glib and overblown. But this was Aravel. "No," he admitted easily, and turned away from the window at last. "Not really." Brisk, needing a change in subject, he went on: "Thank you for bringing me out there. It wasn't what I expected, but... it's something. Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display."

He didn't know what to expect, if he was being honest with himself. In Tevinter, one played the Empire's version of the Grand Game: masked one's emotions, lied with outrageous aplomb, concealed every feeling from every person. No one could know the truth -- not one's parents, not one's spouse, not even one's lover. Anything could, and would, be used as ammunition.

But Aravel simply smiled, open, artless. "I don't think less of you," he said. "More, if possible."

"The things you say," Dorian said, caught by surprise.

"I mean it." Aravel's brows lowered, a little more serious.

"My father never understood." Dorian retreated a step or two. He had never shared anything this intimate with anyone; despite his fear, the words spilled out anyway. "Living a lie. It festers inside of you, like poison. You have to fight for what's in your heart."

It wasn't meant to be an opening, but Aravel stepped into it anyway. "I agree," he said, and moved in close to Dorian, his hands coming up to cradle Dorian's face. Right there, in front of everyone-- and Dorian stopped caring completely when their lips met, Aravel's mouth so sweet and warm on his, tender and promising at the same time. 

"I see you enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor," he murmured when the kiss ended -- reluctantly, on both their parts, he thought. Aravel's eyes had gone just a shade or two darker, his lips glossy from that too-brief contact, and Dorian released him in a halfhearted attempt to keep himself from pushing in for more. How he'd wanted this-- "At any rate," he said, clearing his throat and taking a deliberate step back, "I believe it's time to drink myself into a stupor. It's been that sort of day." Not quite an afterthought, he added, "Join me sometime, if you've a mind."

Aravel's smile was wry, tucked in the corner of his mouth. "I wish I could. I've some marquess to entertain in hopes he'll lend us support. But if I can, I'll find you later."

"Please do," Dorian said, soft. 

Aravel's wider smile, as he turned to go, made something ache in Dorian's chest.

* * *

Dorian's journal that morning contained only two words: _We kissed_.


	3. Chapter 3

"Got any plans this weekend?" Felix asked the next week, startling Dorian out of the meditative research state into which he'd fallen. He blinked up from the books spread out on his desk.

"Not as such," he replied, hesitant. 

"Great. Dad needs us to go to London to pick up some books and stuff, I thought we could make a weekend of it. See a show or something." Dropping into his chair, Felix tossed his mobile to the desk and gave Dorian a careless smile. "I got tickets for the train and a hotel room and everything."

"Planned out every detail, did you?" Dorian sat back, smiling despite himself. A weekend in London sounded like fun -- and with luck, maybe he'd get a break from the dreams.

* * *

"What in the world are we doing here?" Dorian stopped just outside the Tube station entrance, taking in the gigantic domed building just ahead. Around him, a flood of people streamed toward the O2 Arena, most in t-shirts bearing some reference to the Inquisition. From the arena, a thumping beat drifted out at them.

Felix grinned and dug in a pocket, producing a small packet which he handed to Dorian: foam earplugs, it looked like. "What does it look like?" he said over the music as he got out another packet of earplugs for himself. "I got us tickets! You wanted to see them, didn't you?"

Dorian took the packet even as he glared at his friend. "I don't believe I ever said any such thing," he muttered, tearing open the cellophane. 

"Maybe not, but how the hell do you think I could let you pass this up?" Felix bumped Dorian's shoulder and then reached for his wallet, fishing out a pair of tickets as they headed for the nearest entrance. Grumbling under his breath, Dorian followed. It was true he'd be reluctant to miss the chance to see Aravel Lavellan -- the real one -- but a situation like this was not exactly the norm for him. He was glad Felix had thought ahead; Dorian rarely attended rock concerts and knew he wouldn't be capable of handling the sheer volume of noise without some protection.

Their seats were high up toward one side of the stage; Dorian didn't mind, though, not sure he wanted to be in the crush of the open seating on the ground. They still had a decent view, especially with the gargantuan screens providing close-up views of the band, and from here he could take in the enormity of the spectacle. Dorian had little patience for the opening band, though they were clearly talented, led by a female singer with a blisteringly beautiful voice. Then there was more waiting (during which Felix, bless him, went off to get them both something to drink; Dorian didn't even care that it was beer), and then the Inquisition took the stage in a roar of sound and light.

* * *

"Well?" Felix demanded once they'd made it out of the arena and removed their earplugs. Dorian shook his head, which still felt as if it were echoing with those last pounding chords.

"It was them, all right," he admitted. "Iron Bull and Cole and Sera--"

"And the singer?" Felix's grin widened. "That was your guy?"

"Not _mine_ ," Dorian said irritably. He couldn't express the strange feeling of recognition and awareness that had washed through him when Aravel Lavellan took the stage; the audience had gone up in a sheer wave of cheering and applause, so loud it felt as if it shook the floor. It had certainly shaken him, especially when a large image of Aravel appeared on one of the enormous screens, so familiar to Dorian -- save the leather jacket and torn shirt, of course...

He'd sat in a daze for most of the concert, the music (not his cup of tea, to be sure, but clearly enjoyable to everyone else there) washing over his ears. As an added touch of surreality, many of the songs seemed to be about the dream world: one song spoke of the Breach in the sky, another of the chaos of warring mages and templars -- one side fighting for their freedom, the other trying to keep order in a world gone mad. One of the blistering tunes described Corypheus's nightmare visage and the destruction of Haven; when Dorian closed his eyes, he could picture that evening all too clearly, the music a perfect background to the fires and devastation that had claimed the village.

Now, as they made their way down into the Tube station along with the mass of concertgoers, many of them still cheering or singing loudly, Dorian wondered what the night's dreams might hold.

* * *

_"Where's Dorian?" Aravel said, coming to an abrupt halt in the ankle-deep water and turning to look around. In the disturbing unreality of the Fade, he had fought to keep track of the group, afraid with every step that they might be torn from him in an eyeblink, that he'd be suddenly alone here. His breath caught as he took in the faces of the others: Varric, Iron Bull, Hawke, Stroud -- no, no no\--_

_After a moment of breathless panic, he caught sight of Dorian, stopped well back from the rest of them at one of those weird mirrors. They'd seen many scattered around as they'd made their way through the Fade, but none had shown a reflection of their surroundings. Whatever moved in the glass, Aravel didn't want to see. But Dorian must have caught sight of something -- something that completely enthralled him. Aravel didn't need to be a mage to know that nothing in this place could be trusted, least of all a thing as full of possibility as a mirror._

_He splashed back through the water, new fear lancing through him with every jarring step, until he stood at Dorian's side. "What is it?" he asked. "Dorian?"_

_Dorian stood silent for another long moment. Then, shaking his head, he turned to Aravel, confusion shifting to determination. "It's nothing," he said._

_"Clearly it's something," Aravel replied. He rested a hand on Dorian's forearm, tilting his head. "Tell me."_

_Dorian managed a brief smile, weak and pallid in the eerie green light that suffused the Fade. "Whatever it was, it's not important to us right now. We should keep moving. I didn't mean to delay us."_

_"You'll be all right?" Aravel asked. "At least until we get out of here?"_

_"Thank you for assuming we will," Dorian said, and this time his smile seemed a little more natural._

* * *

Dorian sat up with a gasp, shivering in the darkness. In the other bed, Felix made a quiet noise and turned over, sound asleep; Dorian sucked in air as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb him, trying to gather his thoughts. He wiped sweat from his forehead and brought his legs up before him, resting arms on knees as he tried to make sense of the images.

The siege on Adamant Keep hadn't taken long; the crumbling structure practically fell apart under the assault of the first trebuchet. With Inquisition soldiers at their backs, Aravel, Dorian, Iron Bull, and Varric had fought their way through the fortress; Hawke and Warden Stroud had joined them along the way. But then they'd found the Warden-Commander, Clarel, preparing to sacrifice another Warden to open a rift to the fade and bring forth demons -- as if this would somehow _help_ them against a future Blight?! -- and then Corypheus's archdemon dragon attacked, and somehow Aravel opened a rift to the Fade to keep them all from falling into the Abyssal Rift --

He pushed himself out of bed and went to retrieve his journal from his bag, sitting at the tiny desk by the window to scribble it all down while it was fresh in his head. Outside, London was still quiet; the occasional honk of a horn or revving of an engine drifted up to him, but in the pre-dawn hour, few natives yet stirred. Dorian wrote swiftly, recounting the events of the dream. Racing through the Keep, convincing some of the Grey Wardens not to go along with the mad plan -- then they'd faced that vile Tevinter, Erimond, who'd cheerfully sold his soul to their enemy. And then the Fade...

That was the place people in Thedas supposedly visited in their dreams, he recalled. It wasn't supposed to look like where he and the others had been, though: all slimy rock and sickly green sky -- but then, they were there in the flesh, not asleep. To the sleeping mind, it could resemble anything from the dreamer's mind. Any memory would have been nicer, Dorian thought, than the sickly landscape they'd had to trudge through: grotesque statues, murky puddles of questionable water, carved staircases leading to nowhere. And demons around every corner, of course. Adding to the dismal weirdness was the occasional perfectly normal object: a table and chair, bookcases, beds, mirrors with lit candles grouped before them. Dorian wanted nothing more than to get out of the place as soon as possible. At least there was a possibility that they could: this spirit claiming to be Divine Justinia V (as he recalled, she was the holy personage who'd died in the explosion at the Conclave, the same event which awarded Aravel the questionable honor of carrying some ancient elven magic embedded in his hand) seemed to believe she could lead them out. 

Though he was as eager as the rest of their little party to get the hell out of there, Dorian's attention had been drawn, at one point, by an image in one of those tall mirrors. Most of the ones they'd passed were either shattered or so blackened with filth as to be completely unusable; this one, though, was clear, and as he approached it, he caught the sight of movement flickering in the glass. All through the long years of his mage training, he'd been warned, taught, lectured about not trusting anything that could be found in the Fade. He knew that whatever he saw was probably a lie. And yet...

The image in the mirror was himself. But it wasn't. Instead of his usual clothing, he wore an oddly-fashioned shirt that buttoned down the center of the chest, tucked into dark trousers of soft wool. He was surrounded by people in the same bizarre fashion -- some in simpler shirts, some naked from the waist up -- and he was staring at some display as if enraptured. Then the angle had switched, as if he was suddenly seeing through his counterpart's eyes, and he gazed down at the most confusing sight he'd ever seen. Bright lights flashing over a group of people in glittering clothes, leather and metal, holding objects that vaguely resembled weapons -- or possibly musical instruments? And at the front of the group was Aravel himself -- leading them, of course, with Iron Bull and Sera and Blackwall and Cole behind him--

Aravel had got his attention, then, distracted him from the image, encouraged him to keep going. That was when Dorian had woken, stunned and, frankly, a little scared by the whole thing. What the hell was going on? The dream version of himself had seen _him_ in the mirror -- and had seen the Inquisition in concert, the same view Dorian himself had witnessed earlier that evening. 

_What the fuck is happening_ , he wrote at last in his journal, and shut it hard.

* * *

In the shower, later that morning, Dorian turned the hot water up as high as he could stand it. He didn't want to contemplate what the previous night's dreams had meant, not at all. With any luck, he wouldn't have to: today, he and Felix had a few stops to make to procure books and research material for Alexius, and he intended to cap the night off with dinner somewhere nice ( _not_ Wagamama again, if he had anything to say about it). That would be the end of it.

His confidence shattered in the cab coming back from the last bookshop. Browsing something on his mobile, Felix suddenly gave a yelp and sat up, startling Dorian out of his half-doze. "What?" he gasped, hand to his chest.

"We're going clubbing tonight," Felix declared, grinning.

"We absolutely are not," Dorian said. "One big outing a weekend is more than enough--"

"No, look." Felix slid closer across the seat, holding up his mobile. The text was small, black on a vivid red background and hard to read, but Dorian held the phone close to make out the words. Apparently someone on a forum dedicated to the Inquisition had gotten wind that they'd be at a certain club in London tonight after the show (the second of three they were playing at the O2). This was the last chance anyone would have to try and meet them, since they'd be pulling a runner after tomorrow's concert and heading straight out to the next venue.

"I am _not_ going to a club. I'm not!" Dorian pushed the phone back into a laughing Felix's hands. "You can't make me. You can go if you want, but I intend to be in bed by midnight. We have a train to catch first thing in the morning--"

"You're coming with me," Felix stated. "Don't give me that look. We've got to at least _try_ to meet them. This might be the only chance you get." When Dorian went quiet, Felix's voice took on a wheedling tone. "Come on, Dorian. Isn't it worth a shot? I'm not asking you to get drunk and dance around if you don't want to. If we can't meet them, we'll go."

Dorian sighed, shook his head. "All right, all right. Since you're obviously not going to shut up about it."

"All right!" Felix laughed, and Dorian groaned, turning away. He was _not_ ready for this.

* * *

He began to regret agreeing to go with Felix the moment they stepped into the club. The music was loud enough from outside; within, the constant, pounding bass throbbed all the way through him. Despite the lateness of the hour and the fact that it was a Sunday night -- almost Monday morning now -- the club was packed full of people: dancing, swaying, drinking, shouting. Enjoying themselves. Dorian had never been attracted to this lifestyle, though he didn't resent those who were; different strokes and all that. Still, he was glad to have company as Felix led him over to the bar and ordered a couple of drinks for them. His first vodka tonic went down quickly; he sipped the second as he surveyed the place.

"Over there!" Felix shouted in his ear, directing his gaze to a roped-off entrance. Dorian saw the bouncer with a wire in his ear and a clipboard; on this side of the rope, several young women bounced enthusiastically (a display that made Dorian feel old and tired) in hopes of being admitted to what must be the VIP area. A few men stood around nearby as well: even with the bright and varied lighting swinging every which way, Dorian could see that a couple of them wore Inquisition t-shirts and guessed they must be from the website Felix had found. 

He sat up abruptly, nearly spilling his drink. A clear white light swung over one young man's face: in that light, Dorian recognized him. "Shit," he muttered, but before he could turn away, the face swiveled to see him -- and lit up. 

"What's going on?" Felix asked, as Dorian turned to the bar hastily, hunching his shoulders.

Before he could explain, a sweaty hand smacked his back, and Dorian made himself smile as he turned to meet the grinning face of Edin Abraxis.

"Oi, Dorian! Where you been, I ain't seen you in at least a year!" Edin pulled Dorian for a brief, humid hug; Dorian was reminded sharply of why he'd let himself be seduced by Edin in the first place. He pulled back with a weak smile.

"I'm working on my degree at Oxford," he replied. "This is Felix," he added, with a quick nod in Felix's direction. "Felix, Edin Abraxis. We used to, ah--"

"Fuck," Edin filled in with a laugh, and offered his hand to Felix. Dorian felt the tips of his ears go red and wished the earth could somehow open up and swallow him whole. "Hey!" He grabbed Dorian's shoulder again. "This your new boyfriend?"

"Just friends," Felix said with a badly smothered laugh.

"Glad at least one of us is finding this amusing," Dorian muttered.

"Hey, so what are you doing here?" Edin settled on the stool next to Felix, his eyes sparkling. "I don't think I ever seen you in a club before."

"We, uh," Dorian started. Felix leaned over him.

"We saw the Inquisition last night, I figured I'd drag Dorian out for one more crazy thing before we had back to Oxford in the morning."

"The Inquisition?" At that, Felix's grin widened and he jerked a thumb in the direction of the VIP room. "Mate, come on, they're here right now! I was just waitin' on someone, but they ain't showed, you should come in--"

Dorian felt a painful thump in his chest. Before he could protest, Felix was prying the glass out of his hand and pulling him off the stool. "Fuck, _yeah_ , let's go! Dorian, come _on_!"

Helpless, Dorian stumbled after Felix and Edin, whose broad shoulders carved a path through the dance floor. What was happening? He'd barely had time to process the idea that they were actually going to meet the band before the bouncer was checking his list and unhooking the rope to let them into the VIP room. 

Inside wasn't much different from the rest of the club: a smaller room, a little quieter than the deafening volume outside, a private bar and comfortable groups of couches and chairs. Among the crowd filling the room, Dorian picked out the band instantly: Iron Bull first, of course, his massive horns rising above everyone else's heads; then Sera and Blackwall, chatting with what appeared to be an interviewer (must be, since he was holding out his mobile as if recording them); Cole in a corner, his pale face nearly hidden under long bangs and a knit cap pulled low over his forehead -- and a slender figure Dorian recognized at once beside him, as if shoring him up to speak to the fans with them.

Dorian blanched. All of a sudden there were too many people, too close. But before he could turn to make his escape, Felix was grabbing his arm and steering him forward, planting him firmly before the Iron Bull. _Dear God, that's a lot of Qunari_ , Dorian thought absently, looking up and then up some more.

He could hardly make out what Felix was saying to the huge man. Something about how they'd seen the show last night and how great it was. From the look on Iron Bull's face, though, he wasn't hearing much of Felix's words. Dorian didn't think he liked the way Bull was staring at him: rather as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Boss," said Bull, after a moment, his voice louder to project over the babble of conversation and music in the VIP room. "Hey, boss, come here a second, you need to meet someone."

A flash of heat and cold washed through Dorian: _oh God_ , he wasn't ready for this-- But it was too late for second thoughts. The slight frame of the Inquisition's lead singer turned away from Cole and the fans they were talking to, an eyebrow raised in diffident curiosity. His gaze tracked up to Bull's face; then, as Bull gave an eloquent nod in Dorian's direction, Aravel Lavellan's eyes met Dorian's own.

For an instant, Dorian could hear nothing but a strange roaring in his ears. The other people in the room were still there, but they might have been on another planet for all Dorian saw of them now. _It's him_ , he thought, stunned, somewhat gratified to see a similar astonished look in Aravel's wide grey eyes. Distantly, he felt Felix pounding his back and gave an irritated shrug.

"You're real," said the voice he'd only heard in his sleep, and Aravel was there, in his personal space, nearly pressed to him in the closeness of the room. A hand drifted up, nearly touched his face, then jerked back. "You can't be real. If this is some kind of joke--"

"Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous," Dorian said helplessly. Aravel's face took on an expression of unfeigned shock.

"What the _fuck_ ," he said.

"You're telling me." Dorian swallowed, unable to form words, to summon any level of calm.

"How long has it been happening for you?" Aravel reached for his arm to pull him aside; grateful, Dorian followed, all too aware of the eyes on them. The others in the band were watching them curiously, especially Iron Bull, head and shoulders above the rest, and while Dorian normally didn't mind at all being the center of attention, this was not the time for it.

He saw Felix step in to fill the gap he'd left, though, grabbing Bull's attention to praise him for -- whatever, his guitar playing, Dorian had no idea and didn't care. With a mental note to thank Felix later, he turned to Aravel again. God, it was really him. Just a little shorter than himself, same lithe body, same chestnut hair -- damp from sweat now and sticking to his neck, making Dorian want to do nothing more than to brush it back from where it clung to the elf's brown skin--

"You asked a question," Dorian said, and Aravel managed a weak laugh. "I, it's been at least eight months? Probably more. For you, too?"

Aravel nodded. "Woke up in the middle of the night feeling like my hand was on fire." He raised his left hand for Dorian to see: the palm was smooth, unmarked. Dorian reached for it without thinking, cupping the narrow hand in his own and rubbing his thumb over the lines there. This time, Aravel didn't pull his hand back, though Dorian felt the impulse travel through Aravel's arm, and he let go with an apologetic shake of the head.

"Then you've seen all of it too," he went on, brisker. "The Conclave, Haven. Redcliffe."

"Alexius," Aravel added as almost an afterthought, and then his eyes went wide again and his gaze swung across the room, where Felix was now chatting with Blackwall and Sera. "Oh, holy _shit_ , are you telling me that's--"

Dorian gulped down a laugh. "That's Felix, all right. His father's a senior lecturer at Oxford; we both work for him. Research assistants, proctoring tests and grading papers when I'm not working on my thesis."

"Christ," Aravel said, faintly. His skin had suddenly gone ashen, and now Dorian didn't hesitate in taking Aravel's arm and leading him to a couch, shooing away a couple of onlookers without any hesitation whatsoever.

"Breathe," he instructed Aravel, who sat hard, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.

"It's stuffy in here," Aravel said at last, when his color had returned somewhat. "This is seriously not something I expected tonight--"

"Sorry?" Dorian managed a wry smile. "If it helps at all, I didn't expect it either. Felix sort of bullied me into coming along."

"I'm glad he did." Aravel's smile was more natural as he got to his feet. "Let's -- do you want to get out of here?"

Speechless, Dorian nodded in agreement.


	4. Chapter 4

Dorian wouldn't have minded a drink or several at that point, but rather than a pub, Aravel suggested they return to his hotel room. "Nothing against pubs, I just don't feel like getting mobbed tonight," he said. Dorian agreed; the idea of privacy appealed to him more than he cared to admit.

The hotel was a short walk back from the club; in the chilly London night, they passed only a few people on foot as they made their way through the streets. Aravel was shrugged deep in a leather jacket, hands buried in his pockets; Dorian felt entirely out of place next to him, much as he had during the show; he took pride in his appearance, but his taste ran to finely tailored shirts and trousers, classic coats, not leather and torn jeans.

"You're a _rock star_ ," he said at last, with some disbelief still in his voice.

Aravel gave a short laugh. "Noticed that, did you?"

"It wasn't exactly--" Dorian inhaled, made himself chuckle, and started over. "I mean, when this started, the dreams? It was all sheer fancy, I never thought any of it meant anything."

"Me, either." Aravel shook his head, raked fingers through his hair to push it off his face; clumps of it had dried in twists now, and Dorian found himself fighting the urge to smooth the strands with his own fingers. "At first it was just -- something to think about, inspiration for songs."

"That one about the Breach," Dorian said, and swallowed. All the band's songs seemed to be story-driven; that one in particular had given Dorian shivers, describing the maelstrom in the sky that spat demons and opened rifts out of thin air -- and then going on about how Aravel and the Inquisition were fighting back, closing the rifts to save Thedas. The song ended with the sealing of the Breach with the help of a group of rebel mages, exactly as Dorian remembered it happening in the dreams. "I was there."

"You were," Aravel said. When he glanced over, though his eyes were mild, Dorian felt as if he'd been scalded. He looked away, focusing on remembering how to walk for a moment, until Aravel prompted, "You said you weren't exactly... something?"

"Expecting this. Any of this, really," Dorian replied, quiet. "I thought I was going insane. Who has recurring dreams like this? With an ongoing storyline and everything actually making sense, even when I think about it after I wake up."

"Not like the kind where I'm flying around on the clouds one minute and then taking a test I forgot to study for the next," Aravel agreed.

Dorian snickered. "Usually I'm in my pants in front of a class I'm supposed to be teaching without any preparation."

"I wouldn't have minded that one," Aravel said, his smile wicked all of a sudden.

"You are really not helping matters here," Dorian muttered. He summoned a breath and determinedly changed the subject. "Have you told the others about this? Aside from Iron Bull, I mean, since he recognized me."

"Not right off, not until they started showing up in the dreams." Aravel slowed, then moved to a nearby bench to sit down. One leg twitched, foot tapping the pavement. Dorian sat next to him, turned toward him a little. "Varric was the first, he, he's an old friend of the band. Has his own writing gig--"

Dorian couldn't help the chuckle. "Can't say I'm surprised."

Aravel laughed, too, wry. "He does reviews and stuff too, freelancing. So when he showed up in the dream, I figured it was because I'd just been talking to him a couple days before. Then Sera, and I've known her forever. When Blackwall -- when I recruited him to the Inquisition, in the dream, I figured it was worth sharing with the others. They thought it was hilarious, but Bull demanded to know why he wasn't in the dreams yet. Wouldn't you know it, like a day later I get this message that Bull's Chargers are offering their services to the Inquisition."

"Do the Chargers--?" Dorian asked, intrigued.

"Oh, yeah. They're all buddies of Bull's. They're a band, too, they do kind of a ska-punk thing. They're fun. You should see them sometime, they play clubs in London all the time." Aravel's smile was soft for a moment, sweet and familiar. "But that was when I really started freaking out, right? Because it had been a fun kind of diversion, but now... it wouldn't go away."

"And then you came to Redcliffe for the mages," Dorian said, quiet. He still remembered that first moment he'd seen Aravel -- in Redcliffe's chantry, where he'd gone to wait for the Inquisition's agents. He'd been fending off four or five demons that had emerged from an unexpected rift when the doors opened and Aravel strode in. The Inquisitor stood surprised only for a moment before charging into action; he and the others in his party (Dorian hadn't even noticed them until after, fascinated by watching the fabled Herald of Andraste in action) had taken down the wraiths and terrors, and then Aravel had unconcernedly used the magic in his hand to close the rift. 

"And met you, yes," Aravel agreed. "Or that world's version of you, anyway."

"'That world'." Dorian blinked, tilted his head a little. "You don't think--?"

"I don't know what to think." After a moment, Aravel stood again, sticking his hands into his pockets. "None of this makes any sense to me. I've read about recurring dreams. They're never like this. It's usually the same thing, over and over. Not an ongoing... story, for lack of a better word."

"So, you think -- what?" Dorian asked. "We're tapped into another... dimension? A real place? And the dreams are things that are actually happening?"

Aravel shook his head, turning toward Dorian. "It isn't exactly the most plausible explanation, I know. But I don't have anything else. Especially now that I know you're real and you're having the dreams too."

"That's the part I don't understand." 

"Only that part?" Aravel suggested, and Dorian suppressed a laugh.

"All right, not the only thing. But if you and I... we're having the same dream, or a shared hallucination, or something. It'd be one thing if it was just one person, but fine, it's the both of us, now. Only us, though--" Dorian stood, too, began to pace. The narrow pavement didn't give him much room for it, though; after a moment, Aravel began to walk, and Dorian set off after him. "Why is it _just_ you and I?" he asked. "Why not everyone else we know who's also been in the dreams?"

"I know," Aravel said. "I asked the others, and they -- they're just having normal dreams. Even now, like -- while we're all asleep on the tour bus, I thought there might be some... osmosis or something? From sleeping in the same vicinity. But it's still just me."

"And me," Dorian said softly. 

"And you," Aravel repeated.

* * *

Back at the posh hotel, where the Inquisition had an entire floor to themselves while they played in London, Aravel made a line for the mini-fridge as soon as they got into his room. "Want something?" he asked.

"Assuming there's not a fine sauvignon blanc in there, I'm all right with water." Dorian shrugged off his jacket and took in the luxurious room. Being a famous rock star certainly came with its benefits. His entire flat could probably fit in the bathroom; the spacious bed must have been twice the size of his own.

Aravel stood after a moment with a bottle of water, which he offered to Dorian, and another of hard cider. "I know, I know," he said, as if forestalling comment, and untwisted the cap on the cider. "I just never developed a taste for beer."

"Are you sure you're English?" Dorian asked. Aravel laughed and took a long drink; then, shrugging out of his leather jacket, he headed over to the deep leather couch and flopped down.

"Feel more like a Marcher, these days," he commented, fingers idly working at the bottle's label, where a corner had peeled up.

Smiling a little, Dorian followed him and sat, twisting his own water open. "Not so sure I want to claim ties to Tevinter, myself," he said. "Conquering the world like the Romans of old sounds fascinating in theory, not so much in practise. Especially when you add in all the charming slavery and blood magic and bigotry. I'd almost rather be from Orlais."

Aravel shuddered and took another drink. "Don't blame you." After a moment, he twisted a little, openly gazing at Dorian, taking him in. Dorian fought the desire to squirm. " _God_ ," he said after a moment, shaking his head. "I've seen you so many times in my head. If I'd thought you existed for real..."

Dorian felt something twist inside him. "I had the same thought for a long time. Except -- the you I know isn't... you." He gestured vaguely at Aravel. "The one I know from the dreams, it's the Inquisitor. Even so, I--I feel like I _know_ you."

"I kissed you. Him. In the dream." Aravel's voice was quiet, almost shy; his eyes flickered away, then back. Dorian saw the same nervousness there that surely showed in his own eyes.

"You did," Dorian said. "Not about to forget that anytime soon." He was gratified to see Aravel's eyes darken just a little, the elf turning toward him just a bit more. _Maker, Pavus, what are you thinking. Stop this now_ , he told himself firmly.

"Do you," Aravel started. He took another drink from his bottle and went back to picking at the label, eyes focused on it again. "What do you think is going to happen? In the dreams?"

"I wish I knew." Dorian sipped at his water, resisted the urge to press the sweating bottle to his suddenly-warm face. "We made it out of the Fade, which, incidentally, I have _no_ desire to return to again, please and thank you. And if I recall correctly, you've got the Empress's ball to face now."

Aravel shuddered. "How is this all possible?" he said again, his voice quivering a little as if suppressing a laugh -- or a sob. "I'm a rock singer. That's what I do. I can front a band, but you have no idea how out of place I feel in these dreams. Leading a fucking _army_? Meeting empresses and lords and-- It's like some kind of bad joke." He stood suddenly and began to move around the room, restless, abandoning his empty bottle on a dresser. "Even if it isn't real, it sure feels that way when I'm in it. I don't know if I can do it."

"And yet you are," Dorian pointed out, with a weak attempt at a smile. "But remember, it's not _you_."

"I wonder," Aravel said. "I -- look." He stopped again by the windows, turning toward Dorian once more. "I--"

Whatever he had been about to say was interrupted by a pounding on the door. "Everyone decent in there?!" shouted Iron Bull's voice, and a moment later the door opened, Bull hanging on the doorknob to lean into the room. His horns grazed the doorframe as he tilted his head in to grin at the both of them.

"Aww, you guys are no fun!" he grumbled. "We brought the party back here, everyone's in the suite, come on!" Beyond him, Dorian could hear a babble of voices, laughter, shouting. _So much for that_ , he thought with an internal sigh, and pushed to his feet.

"I should go," he said.

"No, don't," Aravel started. Iron Bull shook his head.

"You can't leave yet, the party's just starting!"

"I have a train to take in the morning--" A sudden pang of guilt went through Dorian. "Wait, where's Felix? Did he come back with you?"

"Oh yeah. He and Sera are getting on like a house on fire." Bull grinned. "I hope he knows she doesn't swing that way. Anyway, come on, before all the alcohol is gone!" He tilted back out of the doorway and disappeared; a moment later, a shout of welcome arose from down the hall.

Shoulders slumping a little, Dorian looked back to Aravel, whose face had fallen.

"You have to go?" he said.

"I'd love to stay and talk about this," Dorian said, "but I really should. Felix and I have to be back in Oxford in the morning."

Aravel's lips pressed together; then he came over to Dorian, a hand slipping into his pocket to produce a mobile. "Here," he said, sounding resigned. "Let me get your number, at least?"

Dorian recited the information, then his email address for good measure. "Probably be better to get hold of me that way," he said. "I really can't take calls when I'm working."

"Alexius is a taskmaster in real life, too, hm?" The corner of Aravel's mouth quirked up as he saved the new contact entry and turned off his mobile, dropping it back into his pocket. "All right. I -- I'm glad I got to meet you. Even if it just makes this whole thing more confusing." 

"So am I," Dorian said, and reached for the jacket he'd laid across the arm of the couch before. "You -- I -- I'm looking forward to hearing from you again."

"Me, too." Aravel took a step closer, then another, now squarely in Dorian's personal space. "I know, I know, you have to go--"

His hands came up to Dorian's shoulders. Dorian couldn't resist any longer, not when he'd wanted this since the moment he'd laid eyes on Aravel in the VIP room. He bent his head and met Aravel's mouth with his own. It was sweet, those full lips warm and soft against his, and the low sound Aravel made inflamed Dorian's senses, filled him with raw hunger.

When Aravel stepped back a moment or an hour later, his eyes had gone dark and wide. "I--"

"Better than in the dream," Dorian murmured, and Aravel gave a low laugh, shook his head.

"Even if I don't know you, I still sort of do, I think," he said.

Dorian nodded, stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from touching Aravel again. "I, I'll talk to you soon," he said, and reluctantly stepped back and out of the room.

* * *

Exhausted from the late night and its surreal events, Dorian curled up in a seat to sleep on the train back to Oxford. He was too tired to even care what was happening in the dreams -- preparation to travel back from Adamant after the successful battle and the trip through the Fade -- and only woke dazedly when Felix shook his shoulder to tell him they had reached the station. Shouldering their bags and pulling a pair of rolling suitcases full of books after them, they stumbled out from the platform to a waiting cab.

Dorian had just climbed in and closed the door when he felt a buzzing in his pocket. Bemused, he sat and took out his mobile; then, almost involuntarily, he smiled as he read the text from an unfamiliar number: " _hey its me. hope you slept well, we've got a long trip to skyhold_ "

He studiously ignored Felix's chuckle as he typed in a response: " _As long as you don't go dragging me through the Western Approach anymore, I'm happy_."


	5. Chapter 5

Privately, Dorian had to admit he liked knowing he wasn't alone in having the dreams. It made him feel a good deal saner, for one thing. While he still couldn't explain the phenomenon -- if anything, it made even less sense to be having a _shared_ persistent dream -- at least he could talk about them with Aravel. (Not that he couldn't talk to Felix about them, but it was different when he had to explain everything to Felix and even then felt like he was rarely getting it all across.)

Even the tedious parts of the dreams, like the long days of travel as their company slogged back to Skyhold, seemed easier to bear now. Often, when he woke, Dorian would dash off a text to Aravel before getting up to take his shower: a quick joke about the previous night, some rueful comment on an encounter they'd had or somesuch. Aravel wouldn't respond until later in the day, sleeping as he did on a rock star's schedule, but he always had an amused response or an observation of his own to share.

 _Thought that despair demon nearly had you that time_ , Dorian sent one morning. Shortly before lunch, Aravel's reply made Dorian's mobile buzz on his desk: _i thought so too. you've got to be quicker with the fire spells!_

Another morning, he lay awake in thought for a little while, digesting the previous night's dream before he could compose the morning's message. _Sorry about that?_ he finally texted. The group had finally returned to Skyhold following the battle at Adamant, and his dream self had been silent and unresponsive throughout the return journey. When Aravel confronted him, he'd given a few brittle responses before finally confessing that he'd been sure that he'd lost Aravel forever on the way out of the Fade. He, Iron Bull, and Varric had made it through the rift back into reality first, but the Nightmare had come down before Aravel, Stroud and Hawke had managed to escape. For a horrible moment, Dorian had been convinced that he'd never see Aravel again; even when Aravel and Stroud emerged from the rift -- Hawke having charged the Nightmare to allow them to escape -- he hadn't quite been able to shake that terror. 

Aravel's response, later in the day, made him chuckle in relief. _why are you apologising? not your fault he got so upset about me nearly getting stuck in the fade. dork_

He was also beginning to get very good at ignoring Felix's smirks and knowing chuckles. All the same, he was grateful Felix had taken him to the show after all. And if it had been luck that put them at the club where Edin Abraxis could get them into VIP, well, then Dorian was grateful for that, too.

* * *

_My God, am I really that obnoxious a prick?_ he wrote a couple of weeks later.

 _what?_ Aravel replied only a few minutes later, and then another text came in: _ok time to call?_

Dorian glanced up at Felix and then stood. "I'm going on a coffee run. Need anything?"

"I'm good," Felix said absently. His nose was nearly touching the page of the book he'd been working through. "Tell your guy I said hi," he added, just as Dorian made it to the door. With a resigned chuckle, Dorian left.

His mobile rang before he'd made it out of the building; smiling despite himself, he answered. "Hey. Felix says hi, by the way."

"Hi there yourself," Aravel replied. A faint hum in the background told Dorian he was on the tour bus, and he automatically conjured what he was sure was an inaccurate mental image: Aravel in a bunk somewhere in the middle of the bus, not quite stretched out, a thin curtain allowing a modicum of privacy. "This isn't a bad time, is it?"

"No, no, I just left the office so I wouldn't get caught on the phone. Told Felix I was running out for coffee, so I'm going to do that too. I, uh, it's nice to hear your voice."

He cringed at the sentimentality of the words, but Aravel's voice was warm. "Yours, too. Nice hearing you in reality."

"Especially when I'm such an ass in the dream world, right?" Dorian couldn't help a slightly derisive snort. "What _is_ it with me? Him, I mean."

"Hey, this is the first relationship he's ever been in. Give him a break," Aravel said.

Dorian found himself smiling, if a bit reluctantly. "I suppose you've got a point. You're far too understanding, you know. It's not fair."

He was being a little harsh with his dream-self, he had to admit. Pride was one of the few things Dorian had left, and he'd felt a little shamed when the Inquisitor had learned that Dorian had sold his birthright -- an amulet used by citizens of Tevinter to identify themselves and their lineage. It wasn't a thing to be given up lightly under normal circumstances, but Dorian hadn't had much choice: when he'd fled his father's house in Qarinus, he hadn't had time to gather resources. With little more than the clothes on his back, a staff, and his birthright, he'd been forced to become creative in order to survive his flight to the south. Eventually, he chose to sell the amulet -- though his intent had always been to retrieve it when he later had the resources.

Unfortunately, his first attempt to do so, discreetly, had failed. The slime-sucking, bottom-feeding maggot of a merchant to whom he'd sold the amulet desired much more than gold in exchange; now, he wanted credibility, and he didn't care if it meant blackmailing the Inquisition to get it.

"That merchant needs to go jump in a lake, though," Aravel said, and Dorian did laugh at that.

"All that sly winking and insinuating, like he thought he'd embarrass us. What a little prick."

"You, though!" Aravel suddenly laughed, bringing Dorian up short for a moment. "With that 'He's not my friend' business."

Shaking his head in amusement, Dorian continued walking. "You know they don't really seem to have words for whatever their relationship is right now. Or do they? Is it wooing and courtship instead of dating and being boyfriends?"

"I'm very sure the word 'boyfriend' would never come up." Aravel made a little sound as if he was shifting to get more comfortable. "They're sort of doing this dance around each other, though, aren't they? Everyone knows."

"And doesn't seem to mind." Dorian smiled, distant for a moment, then dodged around a group of smokers just outside a building; he was on the main road now, only a few doors down from Starbucks. "Which is rather refreshing, considering."

"It is, yeah. One less thing to be stressed out about, with everything else that's going on."

"So do you think Ara-- the Inquisitor -- will do the thing, the favor that merchant wants?" Dorian paused outside the coffee shop, tucking himself into a corner beside the door to stay out of the way of passing foot traffic.

"The League de Celestine or whatever? Yeah, I think so. I mean, the way he sees it, it's just a gift for someone he cares about. He's not even thinking about how it looks to everyone else."

"Naive, but adorable," Dorian said softly.

"Him or me?" Aravel asked.

Dorian couldn't help but grin. "You're not as naive as he is, but I think the adorable part counts."

"Well, good." Aravel sounded vaguely smug; Dorian supposed he couldn't blame him. "Look, I better get going, we're going to be stopping soon. Text you later, OK?"

"Sure. Have a good show tonight." As Dorian ended the call and slid the phone into his pocket, he found that he couldn't seem to stop smiling.

* * *

_If there's one thing Orlesians know how to do, it's spectacle. Dear God, the Winter Palace was like nothing I've ever seen. A jewel-encrusted toybox full of people in the gaudiest costumes I've seen yet in the dreamworld. Makes me think of what France must have been like at its most excessive. Even through the other Dorian's eyes, I had a hard time taking it all in. I only imagine how Aravel felt._

_We're there for a variety of reasons. First of all, there's this enormous masquerade and ball. I'm not sure one can call it a masquerade when Orlesian fashion demands masks as de rigeur; they've become so stylized and unique that the masks have lost all original purpose. How can they hide a face, when you can look at a mask and know by the design who's wearing it? Who knows why Orlesians do anything they do? Talk about a decadent society that's overstayed its welcome. Still, there's some charm to their grandiosity. They do know how to throw a party. Now if only the backstabbing machinations of the Great Game could be left out of it._

_The whole shebang was little more than a front for the gathering's true mission, anyway. Apparently Orlais has been embroiled in a civil war for some time now, and while I'm not quite familiar with all the details, it has something to do with Empress Celene wresting control from her cousin, Gaspard, who's not as politically-minded as she is. Gaspard resented this and decided the best course of action was to go to war with Celene, which has cost the country dearly. From what we saw in the Exalted Plains, I'd say Orlais is doing a fine job of tearing itself to shreds._

_Finally, and most pertinent to the Inquisition, there's the knowledge that Corypheus is going to somehow attempt to assassinate the Empress in order to throw Orlais into chaos. It was one of the things that had occurred in the future Aravel and I saw in Redcliffe, and if it were to happen, Orlais' instability would have wide-reaching effects. So obviously that can't happen. (Well, I say obviously. It's clear Leliana believes that as long as someone stays in charge of Orlais, all will be well. So much politicking going on, Dorian in the dreamworld is getting homesick over it all.)_

_The ball is taking place over several days, so we have a suite of apartments in the palace. Talk about luxe -- this place is over the top. The ballroom alone could take half a day to cross. If it wasn't for all the elven servants with the fearful expressions, as if they're afraid to be beaten any moment, I could quite enjoy it. As it is, Aravel has been understandably perturbed by simply being there. From what I can tell, Halamshiral was a place of great meaning to the elven people in the past, before humans decided elves weren't allowed to have nice things and pretty much kicked them all to the curb to take it for themselves. Not only that, the number of nobles who've referred to him as 'rabbit' or 'knife-ear' or asked him to bring them wine as if 'innocently' mistaking him for a servant -- well, it's galling even to me, so I can't imagine what he's going through._

* * *

_Tonight we were formally introduced and announced to the court. The extravagance just gets more and more extreme. So far there isn't much to go on, although Gaspard apparently suspects some hint of a plot as well, but we've all been circulating, trying to find out what we can. Aside from hearing the most outrageous gossip, I'm at a loss. I find I'm doing well standing around looking pretty and listening in on conversations. Aravel found me in the garden and asked me to dance. Once this is all over, I thoroughly intend to take him up on it. He may have been joking, but he looked so stressed._

_Shit, I'm talking about it in the first person again. It's so real when I'm dreaming, though. When I wake up, I have a hard time recalibrating myself to the real world._

* * *

* * *

_Well, that was fun. Third night in Halamshiral and it's all over. Managed to get to the root of the issue -- not before discovering a number of elven servants murdered (Aravel was on fire after that, almost literally). Turns out Florianne, who's a grand duchess and the sister of Gaspard, was behind all of it. Apparently was ready to sacrifice her country and family for whatever crumbs Corypheus would throw her. After publicly exposing her schemes, Aravel somehow managed to force Gaspard and Celene, along with Briala, the elven ambassador, into an alliance. How long this will last, I have no idea, but at least there's peace for now._

_And we did have that dance after all. After nearly dying at the hands of Florianne's assassins, getting to share that moment with Aravel was a lovely end to the night. And while I wouldn't have minded scandalizing the entire court by dancing on the ballroom floor with him, it was even better to be in private, out on the balcony without any prying eyes on us. Just being able to hold him and breathe him in was all I could have asked for._

_Leaving tomorrow for Skyhold. Have a feeling the incident with the amulet will come up again. Dorian is still upset about it, the great idiot. Why can't he let someone do something for him, just for once?_

* * *

As strange as it seemed, time passed, continued on as if everything was normal, as if Dorian's life hadn't undergone a sea-change. The dreams went on, and he kept recording them faithfully; more and more, though, he found himself adding notes about conversations he had with Aravel regarding them, whether they'd talked via telephone or text or email. While the band toured, he kept track of where they were via the website, even occasionally caught himself watching fan-made videos from concerts on Youtube. Inevitably, Felix caught him humming one of their songs one day; all he did was smirk in amusement, though. 

Of the repercussions following the events at Halamshiral, one stood out: the "occult advisor" to the empress, a woman named Morrigan, had been assigned to the Inquisition on Celene's orders. Dorian's dream-self hadn't spoken with her much while at the Winter Palace, but she seemed knowledgeable and intelligent, if distant. On her arrival at Skyhold a week or so later, it became clear that she was also quite important. Apparently she had traveled with the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight ten years before (more of that strange backstory the dreamworld doled out in bits and pieces); she was an apostate mage of some power, and she had even helped in some mysterious way with the slaying of the Archdemon that ended the Blight. Rumors flew even before she arrived, and the day she did appear, on horseback and with a wagon laden with supplies in tow, nearly all of Skyhold turned out to watch. One of the items on the wagon, a tall, flat, rectangular thing wrapped in cloth, was taken immediately to a room off the gardens, while the rest was delivered to an apartment that had been appointed for her. 

He soon learned, from the Inquisitor (as he'd begun thinking of Aravel's dream-self to distinguish him from the man he now knew in real life), that Morrigan had brought a great deal of intelligence about Corypheus, including his possible motivation for exploring elven ruins throughout southern Thedas. When Aravel mentioned that the object in the garden room was an elven mirror -- an eluvian -- Dorian became even more intrigued. Tevinter legend had stories of such items and their properties. He determined to investigate it at the earliest opportunity. 

Before he had a chance to do so, though, Aravel arrived at his little alcove in the atrium, a gift in hand. 

* * *

Dorian woke that morning with his hand on his chest as if he was holding something there. Flexing his fingers, he shook his head in confusion. Then the image struck him: the amulet. The Pavus family crest. 

Despite his dream-self's objections, Aravel had gone ahead and secured the desired favor for that jumped-up social-climbing pissant Ponchard after all. Ridiculous, that the Inquisitor, with so many demands constantly made on his time, would take even a moment to dispatch a request for whatever it was Ponchard wanted -- admittance to some group of nobles? The Thedas equivalent of networking? Yet he'd done it, and the amulet was back in Dorian's hands. A pretty important piece it must have been, too, if he'd woken up clutching an imaginary item in an empty hand. 

Sitting up, Dorian rubbed his hands over his face for a moment. He couldn't blame his other self for being wary of such a gift. Something so meaningful to him -- the token of affection wouldn't go unnoticed. They'd already had Mother Giselle clucking about the appropriateness of a Tevinter mage being so close to the head of the Inquisition; apparently rumors of all sorts had spread, as rumors were wont to do. He'd heard a few of them himself: one outrageous story claimed he was controlling the Inquisitor through blood magic, though to what end the tale didn't make clear. The more tame ones were standard fare: he was sleeping with Aravel, had been since he'd joined the Inquisition; he was sleeping with every other man (and a few women) in Skyhold (he admitted he appreciated the storytellers' estimation of his stamina and charm); he'd infiltrated the Inquisition as a spy for Tevinter, and was sending back strategic information to the Archon -- or, better yet, to Corypheus himself. All utter rubbish, not that denying them would do any good. 

Still, though it was a foolish thing for Aravel to do, Dorian couldn't help but feel pleased at the gift. It had been a kind thing to do, thoughtful, selfless. Dorian's dream-self couldn't think of the last time someone had been that generous to him. He could, however, think of a perfectly lovely way to make it up to Aravel. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets a surprise visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty much smut. I'm changing the fic's rating to reflect this. There is a bit of character stuff as well, but if you really can't stand to read the smut, you might want to skip this one.

The knock on the door startled Dorian so that he dropped the book he'd been deeply involved in. With a mutter, he called, "Just a second!" and stuck a pen in the book to mark his place, then pushed back from the desk.

He hadn't ordered food, so who the hell was at his door? It had better not be one of those solicitors or missionaries; they weren't supposed to be allowed into the building in the first place--

Dorian undid the lock and opened the door a fraction, just enough to see who was in the hall outside. Then, mouth dropping open, he let it swing wide.

"Surprise," Aravel said with a grin, and held up a hand in greeting.

"You're here." Dorian felt dumb, slow, even as he stepped back and gestured; Aravel took the hint, thankfully, and stepped into the apartment, shifting a duffel bag on his shoulder as he did. "What--why are you--"

The moment he'd swung the door closed, Aravel turned, dropping the bag to the floor, and stepped up into his personal space. Dorian forgot the rest of what he was going to say and bent his head to meet Aravel's kiss. Slender fingers twined into his hair; he made a helpless sound, gathered Aravel in more firmly to him.

They'd made it to the nearby futon, Aravel sprawled in an untidy heap over Dorian and between his spread legs, before Dorian finally managed to wrest control of his brain back from certain other parts of his body. "While I'm more than happy to see you," he began, brushing an errant lock of hair back from Aravel's forehead, "might I ask to what I owe the pleasure?"

"Nothing much," Aravel said, propping an arm on Dorian's chest. His hips moved a little, rocked in a suggestive way that made Dorian's breath catch. "We've got a few days off between shows. I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do more than see you, so I thought, you know, why not take the time when I can? One of the perks of being a rock star and having more money than I know what to do with." He gave Dorian an insouciant grin and bent for another kiss.

"I get you all to myself?" Dorian managed when he came up for breath again. "For at least two days?"

"Three," Aravel chuckled. He traced a fingertip over Dorian's jaw, along his blunt chin, sliding up to tease at the neatly-trimmed patch of whiskers in the hollow below Dorian's lower lip. "You want to spend all of it talking?"

Grinning, Dorian nudged Aravel back so that they could get to their feet. "There are so very many things I want to do with you," he murmured, once they'd made it upright -- with some laughter, as Dorian's knees had lost the ability to work for a moment -- and then he turned them, his hands still firm on Aravel's hips, to start for the bedroom. "Talking, however, is fairly low on my list."

"There's a list?" Aravel's eyebrows went up, his grin sly; he glanced behind himself to make sure he wasn't backing into anything, then stopped, just inside the bedroom door, to toe off his trainers. Dorian slid his hands inside Aravel's leather jacket and nudged it off him; then, as if he couldn't contain himself anymore, Aravel pressed himself up hard against Dorian, arms coming around him, fingers clutching at the back of his head. Dorian moaned into the kiss and moved them blindly the rest of the way to the bed.

For half a second, Dorian was grateful he'd made a habit of keeping a neatly made bed; he didn't want Aravel to think him a slob. A moment later, he'd ceased to care about that at all. They went over in the middle of laughter, Dorian collapsing over Aravel, braced with one elbow in the mattress. As much as he'd enjoyed Aravel's lean form laying on his on the couch, this was even better; he could feel Aravel's every shudder, and in particular a promising hardness digging into his hip.

"Of course there's a list," he said, smiling down at Aravel, and ducked his head. This time, he deliberately missed Aravel's mouth, teasing his tongue over a pierced earlobe instead, mouthing down Aravel's clean jawline, pressing his face into Aravel's neck to inhale the rich musky scent of him, heady with notes of sweat and desire. Aravel pushed at him, then, but when Dorian lifted up in brief confusion, he saw it was only so that Aravel could drag his t-shirt off. While Dorian sucked in a breath at the sight of so much bare brown skin, a sleek muscled chest with not an ounce of fat, Aravel's fingers went to work on his own shirt buttons. Belatedly, Dorian joined in, untucking his shirt so that he could pull it off once it was open.

"So much better than your clothes in the dreams," Aravel said, and Dorian barked a laugh.

"You're not wrong there," he chuckled, his fingers going to Aravel's belt to undo the tongue. "So many belts and straps and buckles and bits of metal. What _is_ it with Tevinter fashion?"

"They're all trying to stay virginal and pure by making it impossible to take their clothes off?" Aravel suggested.

Laughing, Dorian finished with the belt and tugged it open, then the fly of Aravel's jeans. Aravel's breath hissed in as Dorian's fingers brushed over the heavy bulge distending the fabric. Dorian bit his lip and looked up at the elf again.

"Not going too fast, am I? I know it's a bit sudden--"

"Sudden," Aravel echoed, with a raw laugh of his own. He pushed up on his elbows so that he could reach Dorian and kiss him again, his tongue forceful, urgent in Dorian's mouth. Dorian moaned; his own cock was stiff as marble in his trousers, and a surge of mindless lust rocked him when Aravel pulled him down to rest over him. "I've been fucking dreaming about you fucking me since I first saw you in the chantry in Redcliffe," Aravel muttered. Now his hands were the ones working urgently at Dorian's trousers. Dorian gave in, rolled to his back and let the elf have his way. 

"All the things I've wanted you to do to me," Dorian said. He could hear the huskiness in his own voice, raw with arousal. "Wanted your mouth on me, wanted you in me. Wanted to fuck you until you screamed."

"The second I saw you at the club in London." Aravel grinned and stuck his hand into Dorian's open trousers, under the waistband of his briefs. His clever fingers curled around Dorian's cock, cupped it in his hot palm, gave him a few easy strokes. Dorian pushed his head back into the mattress and groaned. One hand drifted up Aravel's shoulder to clutch at his back.

"Oh _Jesus_ ," he gasped. "C-careful, it's been so fucking long since I've been with anyone--"

"We've got a whole list to cover," Aravel said, and bent down, drawing Dorian's cock out of his pants. His free hand pushed his hair back behind a pointed ear as he gave Dorian a dark-eyed glance. "Best get started right away, yeah?" Easily, then, he slid Dorian's cock into his mouth, his eyes flicking to Dorian's and then down as if to focus on the task at hand.

Dorian gave up on trying to speak entirely at that point, settling for flexing his hand in Aravel's hair instead; the other hand stretched behind him, gripping at a pillow. It had been a while since he'd had any sort of sexual contact with another person, but Dorian doubted he'd ever felt anything this intense in his entire life. Aravel hadn't even bothered pushing Dorian's trousers further down, so intent was he, his mouth working urgently on Dorian's shaft, fingers curling at the base to hold him steady while his tongue raked random patterns over him. When Aravel's free hand curved around Dorian's testicles, Dorian dropped his head back and lost himself in the astonishing pleasure.

It felt like no time at all before the familiar tension began to build in his balls; he keened, his hips twitching with the effort to stay still and keep from rudely driving into Aravel's heated mouth. Suddenly Aravel pulled back, letting Dorian's cock pop free. Confused, Dorian lifted up to see Aravel's grin, wide and wicked.

"Not-- not that I'm not ungrateful--" he managed, his erection twitching helplessly in Aravel's grasp.

"I've got my own list," Aravel said, raw-voiced, his lips shiny from his efforts, and sat up so that he could tug Dorian's trousers and briefs the rest of the way off. While Dorian kicked them free of his feet, Aravel stood, shoving down his own jeans and pants and stepping out of them in one graceful moment. 

Dorian swallowed hard, head swimming with need. "You -- you do, do you?" was all he could manage. "What sort of things are on this list of yours?"

"Depends what sort of supplies you've got on hand, because I don't even want to go back to the other room to get my bag," Aravel said, his smile crooked. He looked utterly natural naked, casual and at ease aside from the prominent erection rising from a thatch of wiry dark curls; clothing, Dorian decided at once, should be banished from his presence forever. With an effort, he dragged his attention back to what Aravel had said. Supplies. Right. He pushed himself further up on the bed, kicking the duvet away at the same time, and stretched a hand to pull open a drawer in his bedside table.

Aravel's gaze followed the movement, and as he climbed onto the bed again, he reached over, too, smiling at what he saw. His hand dipped in, returned with a strip of condoms and a half-full bottle of lube; as he straddled Dorian's thighs, he chuckled, shook his head in mock disapproval.

"This'll never do at all," he muttered, flicking the lube open and spreading some over his fingers. "Hardly last us the night."

" _Christ_ ," Dorian said, gulping against the rush of want that filled him at that, at the sheen of slick on Aravel's skin. "What, what are you going to do? What do you want?"

"You said it yourself." Aravel's hand slipped between his own legs; Dorian was torn between watching that movement and watching Aravel's face, lower lip caught momentarily between his white teeth, cheeks flushing dark, eyelids low over eyes blown wide and dark. "You OK with fucking me 'til I scream?" 

Dorian's hand moved as if of its own volition, plucking the lube from Aravel's grasp and glopping more of it over his own fingers. His eyes were fixed on Aravel's now, needing to see the reaction in his eyes as he slid his slick fingers behind, around, over Aravel's taut ass and then finding where Aravel already had, _fuck_ , two fingers buried in himself. 

"Do it," Aravel hissed, and Dorian slid his own finger in alongside Aravel's. He gasped at the tight heat, the clasping clutch, even as Aravel groaned aloud in sharp pleasure and rocked down, fucking himself on their joined fingers. For long moments, Dorian lost himself in this new pleasure, enraptured by the sight of Aravel's lean body, the flex of his strong thighs as he moved, his cock bobbing in helpless rhythm with each slide. Finally Dorian reached between Aravel's strong thighs with his other hand, gently taking Aravel's wrist to ease his hand back; when Aravel made a gutteral sound, pleasure and loss, Dorian quickly slid his fingers in as replacement. This was better; Aravel could lean forward on Dorian's chest, propped on clenched fists, Dorian's hand steadier with each twist and slide and pump of his fingers.

At last, _finally_ , Aravel pulled up and away from Dorian's hand with a gasp. "Can't, God, you're killing me," he said, reaching for the condoms he'd dropped earlier and tearing one open. His fingers fumbled a little as he took Dorian's cock in hand to roll the rubber on, and Dorian moaned. He hadn't forgotten about how hard he was, but he'd been sort of able to put the thought aside while he focused on Aravel, and now every sensation hit him like thunder. Now, need roared in his veins again, and he pushed up and rolled them over, fitting himself between Aravel's thighs with a hungry gasp. Aravel lifted his hips up and Dorian pushed in, driving himself into Aravel.

It felt like coming home. He shook a little as Aravel brought his legs up and wrapped them around Dorian's hips, letting him sink deeper, deeper, by slow degrees, until he felt his pelvis grinding against Aravel's and Aravel's erection stiff against Dorian's belly. " _Fuck_ ," he groaned, and Aravel actually laughed somehow, a helpless ragged sound.

"That's the idea," Aravel said, hands stroking up Dorian's back. "I'm good, come on--"

"Better than good--" Dorian found Aravel's mouth again, the kiss messy and needy, and now he could move, could draw back and slide hard for another thrust, another, steady and deep. He thought dimly that he could do this forever, slow pushes that buried him in the dense welcoming heat of Aravel, and then Aravel's hands slid down to his ass and squeezed, pulling him somehow deeper still. He couldn't help it; he gave in and let go, hips eager, fast flurrying thrusts-- "God," he heard himself gasping, "God, fuck, _yes_ \--" as Aravel's moan matched his own.

That was even better, Aravel arching his head back to bare a long stretch of throat, crying out in a voice gone hoarse and raw, and all Dorian wanted was to see just how beautiful Aravel would look like in the midst of climax. He skidded a hand between their sweaty bellies, closed his fingers around Aravel's cock -- gratified at the way Aravel pushed upward, trying to fuck his hand even as Dorian worked his fist on him -- and shifted his thighs to get just a little better position, just a slightly improved angle--

Urgent hands grasped at his shoulders and Aravel surged up for another kiss, shaking and powerful. One hand curved at Dorian's nape; panting, Dorian pulled back just enough from the kiss to watch Aravel's flushed face, his dazed eyes gone black from excitement, lower lip caught in his teeth. "Come on," Dorian told him, "come on, want to see you come, come for me," and Aravel did, splendidly, his whole self given over to the exquisite pleasure. As he let himself fall back, still shaking, belly spattered with semen, Dorian put his head down on Aravel's shoulder and let himself go flying over the edge after Aravel.

* * *

"Wow," Aravel said a little while later, his voice soft.

Dorian could only nod. He'd more or less collapsed on Aravel, sprawled half over him, as they both sucked in air like drowning men. He was still sticky and sweaty -- they both were -- but for once he didn't care about the mess. He barely wanted to move again in his life.

"You all right?" Aravel said after a moment, his hand coming up to stroke Dorian's hair, damp with sweat.

With a low chuckle, Dorian pushed up just enough so that he could look down at Aravel. "So much better than all right, as if you have to ask."

That made Aravel smile, too, lifting up for a soft, brief kiss, gentle now. Dorian closed his eyes for it, savoring the sweetness of Aravel's mouth, the warmth of him. "Never hurts to check," Aravel said afterwards, and stretched an arm over his head languidly.

"You are really something else." Smiling, Dorian pushed himself up -- regretfully, to be sure, but they were beginning to stick together and he liked his belly hair where it was -- and climbed off the bed with a groan. "Stay there," he instructed, "I'll be right back."

In the bathroom, he pissed, then inspected himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. He half-expected his hair to have changed color or his brains to have leaked out his ears, the sex had been so intense. A quick wipedown with a damp flannel; then he wetted another for Aravel and went back to the bedroom.

The bed was a mess, but Aravel looked at home in it somehow, natural, as if he had slept there always. He hadn't bothered straightening it, just sprawled out comfortably, chestnut hair fanned out over the cream-colored pillowcase. It made something jar in Dorian's chest as he took in the sight of Aravel Lavellan, naked and beautifully spent, in his bed.

"What?" Aravel said, a smile gathering in the corner of his mouth. "Dorian? You're catching flies."

Dorian shook his head and made himself chuckle, coming back over to the bed to sit down beside Aravel again. He spread the flannel over Aravel's stomach, watching his hand as he cleaned Aravel up. 

"Dorian," Aravel murmured, and Dorian looked up at him. Aravel was still smiling, though his eyes had gone a little more serious. "What is it? This -- us, it's. It's not weird, is it?"

"God, no," Dorian said. He let Aravel take the flannel, though, resting his hand on his thigh instead. "Well. I suppose it is, a little? But not as much as it could be."

"How so?" Aravel sat up to finish cleaning himself off, then tossed the flannel at the hamper and tugged at Dorian's arm. Sighing, Dorian let himself fall on Aravel again, this time on his side over Aravel's stomach.

"If I let myself think about the reason we met," he said, slow as he chose his words, "then it does seem fairly mad. Am I interested in you because in the dream world, my counterpart is interested in that world's version of you? Or if the dreams had never happened, if I'd just met you some normal way -- which might not ever have happened, either, because I wouldn't have talked about it to Felix and he wouldn't have dragged me to that club--"

Aravel's eyes grew more serious, and he shook his head a little, the corners of his mouth turning down for a moment. "I don't even want to think about that," he said. His hand covered Dorian's on his chest, tracing absent circles over Dorian's knuckles. "I -- well, being honest here, I've been alone a long time now, and this -- this thing, with you, it's kind of been the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me."

Dorian felt his face grow warm and tried to fight a flattered smile, mostly successfully. "The same for me," he admitted. "I -- I liked you in the dreams, a lot, but... getting to meet you and talk to you in real life has been so much better. So I guess what I'm saying is I don't care why or how we met, I'm just glad we did."

"Me, too," Aravel murmured, and hooked a hand around Dorian's nape, bringing him close for another kiss. Dorian shivered a little at the sweetness, felt the shiver pass through Aravel. "You're incredible, you're so gorgeous, I can't believe I got this lucky."

This time, Dorian let the grin spread over his face. "You do know how to bolster a fellow's ego, don't you?" he chuckled into the kiss. "Especially since I'm really hoping for a little more luck here..."

"More items to cross off the list, right?" Aravel's smile widened, and Dorian, laughing, gladly let Aravel roll them over on the bed.

* * *

It went like that through the night, with a brief break only to foray into the kitchen for sustenance. Laughing, Aravel took out leftover containers of Chinese, piling them against his bare chest, while Dorian grabbed silverware and bottles of water; they took the lot back to bed to curl up and eat. Dorian had a hard time remembering the last time he'd had so much _fun_ in bed. Sure, the sex had been incredible, but just being with Aravel, feeding him cold dumplings from his fingers with Aravel licking up drips of spicy gyoza sauce, was turning out to be just as enjoyable.

For the first time in months, Dorian didn't even want to go to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So at this point I feel like I should mention that there is stuff in this chapter that is not necessarily consistent with Bioware's lore regarding certain items (which also are making appearances in the Trespasser DLC, much to my amusement). In fact, I'm about 99% sure that my use of them is less than canonical. Let's be real here, though: this is fanfic and I will never pretend otherwise. But since I feel like I need to say it: I'm going to be deviating from canon for the rest of this fic. Hopefully I haven't bent the rules too much, and if I did, well, that's the only way I could dig myself out of the hole I wrote myself into.

When the alarm on his bedside table went off the next morning, Dorian groaned and reached over to slap the snooze button. He'd just begun to settle back into his comfortable position when everything came back to him, and he sat up, blinking and rubbing his eyes.

It was true. Aravel was here, curled up in his bed, face pressed into the pillow and a little shine of drool showing at the corner of his mouth. Yesterday had been real.

Dorian swallowed and reached over to brush back a tangled lock of hair behind Aravel's ear. As if in response, Aravel smiled sleepily, making a contented sound. It took nearly all Dorian's willpower to keep himself from sliding back under the covers and into that warm embrace. 

_Office hours_ , he thought with an internal groan. _Of course I would have to go in today_. As he swung his legs out of bed and scratched his fingers through his messy hair, Aravel made an unhappy sound.

"You're not in bed," he said. "What is it?"

"Go back to sleep," Dorian said with a smile. He stood up and reached for a pair of briefs from the laundry basket by the bureau. "I've got to go into work."

"Do you have to?" Aravel sat up, yawning broadly, then flopped back again. "Jesus, what time is it? I don't think I've been up this early in years."

"Nice for some," Dorian chuckled. "It's not like I can just--" He stopped, then, swallowed and looked back at Aravel, now stretched out seductively, the duvet draped low at his waist. Dorian's mouth went dry.

"Call out sick?" Aravel murmured, his smile sinful.

"Fuck it," Dorian muttered, and dropped the briefs, letting himself fall back into bed and Aravel's arms. He'd never taken a single day off; he was overdue for this.

* * *

"By the way," Aravel said later, and Dorian lifted his head from Aravel's shoulder. "' _Inquisit_ ' you? Worst euphemism ever."

It took a second for Dorian to make the connection. He'd all but dismissed last night's dream during the morning's activities, but now it came back to him all at once -- their Thedosian counterparts had finally slept together -- and he laughed wryly. "Oh, God, that was pretty awful, wasn't it?"

"At least they finally got together," Aravel said. Shifting to his side, he propped an elbow in the pillow, his eyes soft. "And that talk they had was good."

"I think so." Dorian settled to his back, his hand draped lazily over his slightly sticky belly. "I have to say, being in that man's head makes me pretty damned glad I don't have to hide who I am. He was so scared that Aravel might only want a night of fun, it made me realize he's never been able to have a real relationship."

Aravel nodded, his smile wry. "He really doesn't see how head-over-heels Aravel is for him, either. It's sort of adorable."

That made Dorian chuckle, tipping his head toward Aravel. "Can I just say how confusing it is talking about them like this? I mean, gossiping is one thing, but when they have our names..."

"We should come up with nicknames for them," Aravel said, snickering. "Dalish and Tevinter or something."

"Mmm. Scary Mage and the Mad Elf," Dorian suggested. Aravel's hand stole over his belly and along his side, making him giggle. "Firefingers the Elegant and He Who Charges Into Battle Without Thinking--"

Aravel's mouth stopped his before he could come up with any more nicknames; with a grin, Dorian pulled Aravel over him once more.

* * *

By the time they dragged themselves out of bed and into a hot shower, Dorian's stomach was grumbling. "We have got to get out of here before I attack you again," he chuckled as they climbed out of the narrow shower stall.

Laughing, Aravel reached for towels. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I'm _knackered_!" Dorian laughed as he took a proffered towel. "And I don't know about you, but I'm starving as well. You don't want me withering away to nothing, do you?"

"I suppose we could go look for something to eat," Aravel said, rubbing a towel over his hair and then heading into the bedroom again. "We could wander a bit, I'd like to see where you work and everything."

Dorian followed, towel wrapped around his hips, admiring the sight of Aravel unconcernedly nude in his bedroom. Here in his flat. It still seemed unreal. "Well, I'll take you by the building, but if we go in, it'll give the lie to me being so sick and all." Chuckling, he pretended a cough as he pulled out a drawer and began assembling an outfit.

"Ugh, clothes," Aravel muttered, but he sat on the bed and unzipped his bag, digging through it to find boxers, jeans, a t-shirt. As he dressed, Dorian tried not to eye Aravel in the mirror. Mostly, he succeeded; he grinned shamelessly when he caught Aravel looking back at him.

* * *

Privately, Dorian was a little worried that Aravel might be recognized as they made their way to one of his favorite pubs, but his concern proved false. With his hair pulled back in a knot and a cap covering his head, Aravel could pass for any student or local around town. Even his ears didn't stand out; Oxford had its fair share of non-human students (in fact, after he'd started having the dreams, Dorian had found himself noticing the elves more than before, as if hyperaware of them now). 

Lunch was quiet; they were left alone once they got their food, and Dorian was so hungry that at least for a few minutes, he was more interested in his meal than in his company. Once they'd finished, a lazy stroll around some of the university's more interesting buildings seemed in order. The brisk spring breeze felt delicious, just the right amount of coolness to keep them comfortable as they walked and as Dorian noted various points of interest. At one point, when he dropped his hand after indicating one of his particular favorite sights -- a statue of a shark stuck head-down in the roof of a house -- Aravel's fingers innocuously curled around his, and he inhaled.

"Is this all right?" Aravel asked, all innocence.

By way of answer, Dorian squeezed Aravel's hand, a smile coming almost involuntarily to his face, as they continued to walk.

* * *

He almost passed it up, not thinking Aravel would be interested, but when he mentioned the Ashmolean, Aravel looked intrigued. "Isn't that -- they filmed some of the Harry Potter scenes here, didn't they? Isn't this one of the locations?"

Dorian couldn't help his wry laugh. "You're a fan?"

"They're good films, shut up." Aravel grinned, unashamed. "Besides, I liked that they actually had an elf as a main character. That practically never happens."

"Well, it's the Bodleian library you're probably thinking of, at any rate," Dorian chuckled, "but there's some good stuff in the Ashmolean, too. We could take a quick spin through there and then... maybe head back, pick something up to make for dinner?"

Aravel's smile was softer now. "Yeah, that sounds good to me."

* * *

Dorian did enjoy wandering the Ashmolean; he didn't get to come here that often, but he'd made a point of it early after arriving at Oxford, wanting to see the famous Stradivarius kept on display. Every time he came, he found something different -- not only because of changing exhibits, but from random exploration as well. He could tell Aravel wasn't as interested, though he did spend some time peering closely at the legendary Stradivarius from different angles.

"It's not that much like a guitar, is it?" Dorian asked when Aravel was done at last.

"In some ways, but it's more -- that's a work of art," Aravel said. "You hear about Stradivarius violins, how amazing and rare they are. Getting to see one that close, it's just really beautiful. I don't think I'd even want to touch it, I'd be afraid of damaging it."

They'd moved on, quiet for a time -- Dorian liked that, how Aravel didn't feel the need to chatter constantly -- when something caught Dorian's eye partway through one of the Renaissance displays. When he turned to glance, he froze in place.

"What's--" Aravel began. Dorian tugged his hand; he heard the brief intake of breath, and then Aravel's slow exhalation. "The _fuck_ ," he said, faint and sounding dazed. 

Standing tall against the wall, surrounded by paintings and statues, was an elven mirror -- an eluvian. Dorian could have sworn he'd been through this room a hundred times and yet he'd never seen it here. Or maybe he had, and hadn't known what it was?

Aravel had let go of his hand, crossing over to where the mirror was displayed. Its surface was clear, but oddly wavery, producing distorted reflections; still, the shape of the frame and the metalwork were so distinctive. It had to be. 

He glanced at the information card mounted on the wall beside it. There was no attribution of an artist: only speculation as to what period the mirror belonged and where it had been made. "Found in an abbey in Essex," he read, and shook his head. "They don't know what it is or where it came from."

"What's it doing here?" Aravel's voice was low and a little shaky; when Dorian looked at him, he saw that Aravel had gone pale beneath the brown of his skin, like it had when they'd met for the first time. "Dorian, remember -- what Morrigan said--"

"They're doors between worlds," Dorian replied, equally quiet. "But they need to be activated with a key. How could-- Could it be possible," and he turned toward Aravel, whose wide eyes were fixed on the mirror's wavy surface, "that there's a mirror in that between-worlds place she showed you that leads here? To our world?"

He thought he was doing a decent job of hiding the fear in his voice, but when Aravel took his arm and steered him to a nearby bench, he sat hard, his legs gone suddenly numb. Even meeting Aravel and realizing they were sharing the dreams hadn't scared him as badly as this.

"Breathe," Aravel murmured. Dorian leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and took in a slow deep breath, let it out again. His hands felt cold.

"What if it's all real," he said. He looked up at Aravel, who had taken off his cap to rub a hand over his tattooed forehead. "Like you said that first night we met. You thought it might actually _be_ another world."

"But it's not _us_ ," Aravel said. "Not you and me. It can't be. Things are happening there at the same time, the same rate they're happening here. The first night we played in London was when the siege at Adamant happened. We can't be in two places at once."

Dorian had to put his head down and breathe again. He could feel his heart pounding unpleasantly in his chest. When he felt capable of rational thought once more, he sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. "All right. So. We have... we have these shared dreams. They started, when did they start?"

"Last June," Aravel said. His throat worked; Dorian reached without thought to take his hand, needing the physical connection. Aravel swallowed and turned his gaze to their joined hands, as if it helped somehow. "The first dream I had was the explosion at the Conclave. I woke up -- in the dream, I woke up in the cells of the chantry in Haven with the mark on my hand."

"And I had just escaped from my father's house when the explosion happened. The first dream..." Dorian had to swallow the bitter bile he still felt when he thought of it. "I'd managed to get out of the house with the clothes on my back, and I was at some seedy inn, hearing a couple of travelers talk about the explosion at the temple."

"The Breach." Aravel sat up a little, raking a hand through his hair; it was coming loose from the tie he'd put it in, and he gave up now and undid it, smoothing it with his hands. "It had to have been the Breach that started this for us, then, too."

"Along with killing the Divine and everyone at the Temple of Sacred Ashes," Dorian said. It made a strange sort of sense. "What if... You know, I've always thought the idea of multiple dimensions was logistically impossible, but now I'm starting to wonder."

"An alternate dimension. And the Breach weakened the walls between them?" Aravel breathed a humorless laugh at that. "Fuck, this is going to start sounding like Doctor Who or something."

"Yes, but what if that _is_ the case? And because you have the Anchor in that world, that connected the Aravel in that world to you?" Dorian bit his lip and then got to his feet, glancing from Aravel to the mirror -- the eluvian -- again. "It's why you're having the dreams. You're actually seeing what he sees, feeling whatever he's going through."

"But that doesn't explain why you're having them too, while no one else is," Aravel pointed out. He stuffed his cap in a pocket and stood, too, approaching the mirror again. "I mean, you and I -- he and Dorian -- they're close in that world, but they weren't when the Breach first happened."

"No," Dorian agreed absently. His gaze moved to the mirror again, as if he could make something out from that unsettling surface if he just looked closer, just a little closer...

"Dorian," Aravel said suddenly, urgently. Dorian felt himself yanked back and caught at Aravel's shoulder as he balanced himself. 

" _What_?" Dorian glared at Aravel, and then looked back; he'd come several steps closer to the mirror without even noticing.

"You were right up to it. Practically touching it," Aravel said. "It started to... to look strange. It freaked me out. I didn't want something to happen to you."

"How _could_ anything happen to me?" Dorian asked, straightening his coat with some attempt at dignity. "Magic doesn't work here, not in this world."

"Why don't we go?" Aravel asked. "We can talk about this... back at your flat, or wherever?" He sounded genuinely concerned; Dorian nodded, suddenly feeling the same way: wanting to be anywhere but near the mirror. As they left the room, he made a careful point of not looking back at it.

* * *

By the time they'd made a quick round through Tesco to pick up things for dinner, Dorian was feeling much more like himself again. A couple of women had recognized Aravel while they were picking out a bottle of wine, but thankfully, they didn't make a big deal of it; though one was clearly a huge fan and giggled nervously as she asked for a picture, there was no screaming or alerting the press. Afterward, Aravel tugged his cap down lower on his forehead and grinned up at Dorian. "Guess my disguise isn't as good as I hoped. I should have worn sunglasses."

"Then you'd really stand out, it's so overcast today." Chuckling, Dorian bumped Aravel's shoulder with his own and reached for a bottle at last. "Here, let's go before the screaming mob comes running after you."

"That sort of thing doesn't actually happen, you know," Aravel commented wryly as they headed for the checkout lines. "I don't think it even happened to the Beatles outside of the films."

"Maybe not, but let me have the fantasy." Dorian's smile widened. "They all want a piece of you, any way they can, but I'm the one who gets you."

"That part's true enough," Aravel said, his glance at Dorian soft and a little sly. "And all of them are so jealous of my adorable boyfriend."

Dorian wasn't sure which word threw him off. "Boyfriend," he repeated after a moment. 

Glancing at him again, Aravel stepped forward in line and Dorian automatically followed. "If -- if that's what you want," Aravel said, sounding suddenly shy. _After all of last night and today_ , Dorian thought, his own confidence coming back all at once.

"It's exactly what I want," he said, smiling easily, and stepped up to pay for the food.

* * *

_"I'm not so sure I like the idea of this thing here in Skyhold," Dorian said, his tone much similar to that of Cullen's when it had arrived._

_Aravel, arms folded, glanced at him. "You're not interested at all in it?"_

_"Oh, I never said that." He took a step closer to the mirror -- the eluvian, as Morrigan had called it. Its surface was anything but mirror-like: patterns chased themselves just below the glass, random and yet mesmerizing, forming and reforming in organic curves and loops, like ripples in a pond rebounding on themselves and shattering into new shapes._

_"Don't get too close," Aravel said. Dorian glanced back at him, fond smile tucked into a corner of his mouth._

_"Come now,_ amatus _, do I appear to have any desire to get lost in ancient elven magic? Besides, as Morrigan said, these things require keys. She's the only one who can open it--"_

_He'd brought his hand up to the eluvian as he spoke, meaning only to rest his palm on the surface. Instead, the surface gave way, and Dorian found his hand groping_ through _, closing on nothing at all. He jerked his hand back, eyes wide with panic. The colors of the eluvian had changed, gone bright gold, rippling out from where his hand had entered it._

_"Did you wish a closer look?" Morrigan's voice, dry as bone, came from the entrance to the room. "I would be most happy to arrange it."_

_"Morrigan," Aravel began, his tone that of a guilty child. The woman only laughed, shook her head as she came up to them._

_"'Tis not necessary to apologize," she said, glancing from Aravel to Dorian. "A magical artifact of this nature is always bound to fascinate. Should you wish to learn more of it, I would be happy to share what I know." This was delivered to Dorian, who had folded his arms, pointedly tucking his hands under his biceps._

_"I've never encountered magic like this before," Dorian said. "Though, considering where I'm from, it's not really a surprise. I must admit I find it intriguing."_

_"Would you like to see more?" Morrigan gestured to the eluvian again, and this time the entire surface rippled with shimmering light. "I have always been of the opinion that the more one learns, the better prepared one is for life's twists and turns."_

_Dorian glanced over at Aravel, who gave a slight shrug. "I'd like to see a little more of the place myself, if you want to go."_

_"All right then." Dorian turned to Morrigan with a nod. "Let's see this place between worlds of yours."_


	8. Chapter 8

Waking up the next morning, Dorian smiled even before his eyes opened. He was warm and comfortable, curled up under the duvet with Aravel pressed up to his back and his lean arms around Dorian's torso, and the best part was he didn't even have to move. Today was an off day, so no office time; they could stay in bed as long as they liked. If only he didn't have to piss, everything would be perfect.

Reluctantly, he slid himself out from Aravel's embrace and got up, hurrying to the toilet. He'd finished and washed his hands, was halfway back to the bedroom when a stray thought struck him and he stopped cold in the bedroom doorway.

A bleary-eyed Aravel had pushed up on one elbow, blinking at him and covering a yawn. "What're you doing?" he said, scratchy-voiced. "Come back to bed."

Dorian did so, moving almost on autopilot as he went around the bed and sat, back to the headboard rather than lying down. "What did you dream about last night?"

Aravel gave him a raised-eyebrow sort of look. "What do you mean, it was... we're still in Skyhold, they're looking for..." He trailed off, absently scratching at his jaw with one hand, as his eyes narrowed. "I don't... I don't remember," he said after a moment, puzzled. "There was something, my house where we lived when I was five or six. But it was all different, and I was wandering around..." He looked up at Dorian, shaking his head. "I don't remember anything else."

"Neither do I," Dorian said. He inhaled, let out the breath. "Maybe... maybe it's nothing. The dreams haven't happened every single night, have they?"

"As far back as I can remember." Aravel pushed to sit up now, his brows drawn in concentration. "I mean, I wasn't keeping track at first, but--"

"I was," Dorian said abruptly, and got up again, snagging a robe from the chair in the corner and tying it around himself as he went into the other room. Blinking, Aravel followed after a moment, stepping into a pair of boxers as he came into the flat's main room. Dorian had already taken the notebooks out of the desk drawer and set them next to his laptop; he opened the first one, which began with him speculating whether he'd gone insane, and began to flip pages to look at dates.

"You've been writing it all down?" Aravel said in amazement. Dorian handed him the second notebook.

"Here. See if there are any gaps."

Aravel took the book, then set it aside for a moment, heading into the kitchenette to fill the electric kettle with water. "We're going to need coffee for this," he commented wryly.

It didn't take long to determine that the dreams had indeed occurred every night -- at least, if Dorian had kept accurate dates in the books. "And I did," he said, shaking his head as he closed the most recent notebook. "So how could they just stop?"

"When they first started, I really wished they would," Aravel said. He'd gone a little slower, reading Dorian's notes with interest, especially when his dreamworld-self had appeared from that Dorian's point of view. He glanced up at Dorian now, across from him on the sofa. "Do you think it could have something to do with the eluvian?"

Dorian felt himself go a little cold, though he shook his head almost at once. "It couldn't. We're not -- it's not like magic works here. And even if it did, how could it--?" He stood, making a face, and went back to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee from the French press. "I suppose it _could_ be activated from the other side. When Morrigan took you into that between-worlds place--"

Aravel sat up, pushing his hair out of his face. "That's got to have something to do with it."

"Look, let's not panic over this right away. So we didn't have the dreams last night." He raised the mug in query; Aravel shook his head, and Dorian brought it back with him to his desk, taking a long drink once he'd seated himself again. "Maybe it was just some sort of fluke. We don't have a way to test it, at any rate."

"Suppose you're right," Aravel said, setting the last notebook aside with a frown. "We can't even communicate in that direction. It just feels so strange not knowing what happened with them last night."

Lips tight, Dorian nodded. He closed the notebook he'd been looking through, then pushed a hand through his hair. "Why don't we have breakfast and put this aside for now? No use getting overwrought when it might be nothing."

"Works for me. Do you want to go out or stay in?" As Aravel stood to bring the other notebooks back to the desk, Dorian inhaled. He could smell the scent of sweat and sex still clinging to the elf's skin from last night's activities, and the boxers he wore had slipped low, revealing a trail of dark hair that disappeared under the waistband.

"I vote for staying in," Dorian said, setting his cup aside and reaching to tug Aravel down into his lap. Grinning, Aravel folded easily over him.

* * *

The remainder of Aravel's visit went by far too quickly for Dorian. They screwed, slept, ate, screwed some more; when they couldn't take it any longer, they got out of the flat and went for a walk or dinner or drinks -- at least until, inevitably, desire drove them back behind closed doors again. Dorian didn't think he'd ever had so much sex in his life in such a short period of time. 

Despite the delight of simply being with Aravel, Dorian couldn't seem to shake his concerns about the dreams, especially as another night and then a third passed without them having any but the most ordinary types of dreams -- if they remembered them at all.

"I want to go look at the mirror again," Dorian said, the morning Aravel was due to leave. They had stayed up late the night before, both painfully aware of how soon their idyll would end; now, lounging in bed, Dorian couldn't stop himself from bringing it up again.

"Do you really think anything will have changed?" Aravel asked. His fingers were trailing down Dorian's chest in a most enjoyable way.

"No," Dorian admitted, and caught Aravel's hand against his belly. "But I just feel like if I look at it some more--"

Aravel gave a great, dramatic sigh and laid his head on Dorian's shoulder. "You're not going to let me distract you out of this, are you?"

"Well, I suppose I could be distracted for a little while," Dorian admitted, and Aravel grinned and pushed him back on the bed.

* * *

A few hours later, showered and dressed, they returned to the Ashmolean. While Aravel prowled around the mirror, examining it up close, Dorian sat down on the nearby bench to watch both his lover and the mirror.

Slipping his phone from his pocket, Dorian quickly snapped a few pictures, then brought them up on the mobile. He found it less disturbing, somehow, to view the images rather than the mirror itself; the mirror's surface didn't appear so wavy and hypnotic in digital format.

"It's a lovely piece, isn't it?" said a voice, interrupting his thoughts, and Dorian blinked and looked up, hastily shutting the photo app down. The woman who had spoken stood before him in the uniform of a museum staffer -- curator, he guessed. Silver-haired, she somehow retained a youthful energy in her bright eyes, and her figure wasn't bad at all for a woman in (he guessed) her mid-sixties.

"Er, yes," he said. "Do you know anything about it, by chance?"

"Not much." She gestured to the bench; obligingly, Dorian scooted over a little so that she could sit next to him. As she did, he noticed a sparkle at her ears; she wore little metal earrings shaped like dragons. Fascinating. "You've probably seen that we have no real information on its origin or maker. In fact, it only landed in this room because we couldn't really decide where else to put it."

"I must admit I'm surprised you've got it on display at all," Dorian said. "It's a little disconcerting to look at, the way the glass is so distorted."

"True, true." The woman shrugged, gave him a smile. Her voice, he noted absently, was American in accent -- not that that meant anything here, where students from all over the world congregated. "But we rotate the exhibits every so often, and this piece had languished in the back for quite some time. I like to hope that someone will have some idea as to where it came from, or at least when."

"A random student?" Dorian couldn't help a brief smile. "Well, I suppose nothing's outside the realm of possibility."

"Indeed." She chuckled, then offered a hand. "Florence Meriwether."

"Dorian Pavus," he replied, shaking; her grip was surprisingly firm. "I'm one of those random students, I suppose, not that I can offer any useful details on the subject."

"You never know." Her smile was cryptic at that; then she stood, walking towards the mirror. As Dorian followed, Aravel straightened -- he'd been reading the card mounted on the wall next to the mirror -- and raised an eyebrow.

"Aravel," Dorian said, "this is Florence Meriwether. She's a--"

At his pause, Florence laughed and reached for Aravel's hand to shake it. "I'm a curator here. I noticed your interest in the mirror the other day, as a matter of fact."

Aravel's eyebrows narrowed at that; his posture went the slightest bit stiffer. Defensive. Dorian drew in a breath, feeling much the same, but the woman merely smiled. "It's certainly an interesting piece," Dorian said, careful to keep his voice level, "but I'm not sure what you mean--"

Florence drew up next to the mirror and gave them both a gimlet look, pinning them in place. "Gentlemen," she said, firm now, "I think you know exactly what this mirror is."

"No, I really don't--" Dorian started.

Her hand stroked the surface of the mirror. It shifted all at once, the rippled waves of the glass seeming to dissolve into softly-glowing blue light. Dorian's mouth dropped open; he swallowed hard and wrenched his gaze from the mirror to the woman.

She hadn't changed in appearance at all, and yet a feeling of power now emanated from her, a light seeming to shine from within her as if her skin was a mere shell, paper over something truer, deeper: something both beautiful and frightening all at once. Dorian's mouth went dry.

"It's time for you to take a chance," the woman said. "Can you do it? Will you help save the world?"

"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," Dorian blurted.

To his surprise, the woman burst out laughing, a rich, throaty laugh born of true amusement. "I like you," she said, when she'd recovered. "But that doesn't change the fact of the matter. Your other self -- yes, you were both right about that -- went poking about where he wasn't supposed to, and he got your lover's other self trapped as well. You can undo it, but you don't have much time. And if you don't, both your worlds are in danger of dying."

" _What_?" Aravel said, hot, even as Dorian felt the color drain from his face. "What are you-- Who _are_ you? How do you know all this?!"

"I'm known by many names," she said, and now, though her eyes still danced, she wasn't smiling at all. "We don't have much time, though, so for now you may call me Flemeth. You might have heard of me in the dreams, though: the Witch of the Wilds?"

Dorian _had_ heard that name, though it was far back in memory, in studies the other Dorian had undertaken while still a youth in Tevinter. It was enough to rock him back on his heels, though. He wiped a hand over his mouth, full aware he was staring. "Asha'bellanar, in the language of the elves," he said.

"Oh, good!" She laughed again. "My reputation reaches far enough north, I see. Well, then, that's all the time we have for pleasantries. Oh, don't scowl at me like that, Pavus. I'm not kidnapping you, I'm going with you. Come on, now, we don't have much time."

As easily as if she was walking through a door, Florence -- or Flemeth, rather -- casually stepped through the mirror's surface. Instead of breaking, it admitted her readily, and as she passed through, the blue glow surrounded her and took her in until she was no longer visible.

Dorian gave Aravel a nervous smile. "Just like the one at Skyhold, right?" he said.

"Not sure I want anything to do with these things," Aravel replied, his voice gone grim, but he turned to the mirror and started to step forward. After a moment, though, he reached for Dorian's hand.

"Together," Dorian said in response to the unasked question. The mirror was wide enough to admit both of them, after all. He took a deep breath and put his foot over the mirror's frame.

* * *

A second of disorientation and they were on the other side; Dorian didn't even have time to contemplate the nauseated sensation that ran through him as the magic of the eluvian surrounded them. Their surroundings were familiar at first glance, though: he recognized the place between worlds from the last time Morrigan had brought them both here, indulging his curiosity... _The last dream_ , he thought, and stopped for a moment. Aravel's hand tugged at his; belatedly, he moved forward again, following Flemeth along a faded stone path.

The sky above them was a uniform grey; spread across the wide plaza around them were more eluvians, most of the same height and style as the one through which they'd come, generally grouped in settings of two or four. Dorian glanced back at the other mirror to make sure he knew where 'theirs' was; the last thing he wanted was to be lost here without knowing how to get home.

"Do you suppose you could do magic here?" Aravel murmured to him. Dorian managed a low laugh.

"Honestly, I don't think this is the time to try."

Flemeth stopped abruptly, pointing ahead of them. "There," she said. A good hundred yards or so away, Dorian could see a slender figure with a staff slung on her back, her black hair glossy even in the half-light of the place. Morrigan.

"I can't let her see me," Flemeth said. "She knows what to do, though. I've made sure of that. She'll get you back safely," she added, with a glance at Dorian -- rather as if she'd sensed his thoughts, he realized, disturbed more than he cared to admit. "At any rate, I'm needed elsewhere. Go," she said, imperative, commanding.

Before Dorian could open his mouth to protest, black smoke boiled up around Flemeth. When it cleared, she was gone again. Dorian blinked at Aravel, who could only smile weakly in response.

"Why am I having visions of the Wicked Witch of the West?" he asked.

Dorian laughed in spite of himself, shook his head. "Come on, let's see what in the name of God she meant by all of that."

Morrigan had already spotted them, it seemed; she had been pacing before one of the eluvians, but she stopped, turned to face them as they approached. Her mouth opened, the dark look on her face suggesting anger or possibly fear (if Dorian recollected, she thought herself the only one aware of this between-worlds place except for Corypheus); instead of speaking, though, she stared at them in clear confusion.

"I know," Aravel said at once. "I know we look like them--"

"More than look like," Morrigan replied, collected in an instant. "You _are_ them."

"We're really not," Dorian said. "But that's an argument for another time. We--" He paused, remembering Flemeth's final words, and amended what he'd been about to say. "We were informed that your world and ours are both in trouble."

"And that there's something we can do to help," Aravel added. "But not how or why."

Morrigan took a breath, reaching for her staff to lean on it as a walking stick. "I suppose I know who helped you come here," she said. "Let me see if I can explain it." As Dorian exchanged a wary glance with Aravel, Morrigan turned toward the mirror before which she'd been pacing. 

"I told you -- your other selves?" She shook her head before going on. "I told them about this place, showed it to them. Do you know about that?"

"We've both had dreams of what's happened in your world ever since the Breach opened," Aravel said. "Every night, everything that occurred."

"Well," Morrigan said, sounding relieved, "that will make this easier, then." She gestured to the mirror; its black surface shimmered, gained a sheen of dull light: like the others when activated, this one also glimmered blue, but a sickly, weak blue instead of the bright and vibrant hue they'd seen before. 

"When I brought the Inquisitor and his lover here three days ago," she went on, "they somehow stumbled into this mirror. 'Tis quite impossible for me to explain how or why, as every other eluvian I've come across required a specific key to work. Nor can I find the way to activate it. This is the best I can do."

"Three days ago," Aravel said, and Dorian nodded, his mind racing.

"That was when the dreams stopped for us," he added.

Morrigan tilted her head. "Interesting. Have either of you met counterparts of your other companions in your world? Did they share these dreams as well?"

"No," both of them said at once. With a brief chuckle, Dorian elaborated: "We've met them, yes, but they didn't have the dreams. Only the two of us. We couldn't figure out why."

"My theory may be correct, then. I believe this eluvian is frozen in time as well as space," Morrigan said. "It could well be attuned to you -- or only to your other selves. In any case, I've detected a disturbing connection between this place and your world," she went on. "If I am correct -- and I usually am -- this is why you had the dreams. It's possible that this particular eluvian was enchanted as a trap for the Inquisitor. And with it somehow connected to your world--"

"If Corypheus figured out how to travel to alternate dimensions," Aravel said, and Dorian felt a sickening swoop in his gut.

"He could take over our world in no time at all, since we've no magic and no way to defend against him," Dorian said.

"Indeed." Morrigan's eyes were grim now. "This task I must place in your hands now. I cannot travel into this eluvian. You, however, should be able to. The Inquisitor _must_ be freed, or else Corypheus will have our world and any other he chooses."

Dorian swallowed hard. It wasn't hard to envision: an ancient darkspawn magister with untold levels of power, an archdemon at his command, and seeming immortality -- he'd never be satisfied with controlling one world if he thought he could have them all.

"Let's go," Aravel said, and strode up to the mirror. Feeling cold all over, Dorian followed.

"One moment--" Morrigan's hands came up, turning around and over each other as if fashioning something. A moment later, she offered Aravel what appeared to be a simple ball of yarn. The dangling end she kept in her own hand. "To guide you back here," she said. "If you cannot return on your own, pull on it hard as you can, and 'twill call to me so that I may summon you."

Dorian couldn't help but smile at the ease of her conjury. "Impressive," he said, which gained him a twitch of her lips; then he turned and followed Aravel into the mirror.

This time, the transition wasn't as easy; they had to push through an unexpected resistance, like taut fabric or thick webbing woven against them. When they finally did break through, Dorian found himself brushing his shoulders off; he thought he could still feel strands clinging to him.

"Can you see anything?" Aravel asked. 

Dorian shook his head. Between the dark sky overhead and the lack of general illumination, he could see only a few feet before them. A dirt path led ahead into utter blackness, with no more than the suggestion of foliage on either side presenting itself to him. "Not a damned thing," he replied.

"Too bad you can't use a fire spell." Aravel's chuckle was weak.

"I wouldn't have the first idea what to do with it if I had it--" Dorian cut off suddenly, a grin spreading across his face, and reached into his pocket for his mobile. He'd left it on the charger overnight; surely it'd have battery power here? When he thumbed it on, the blue glow lit up his face and rewarded him with a smile from Aravel. "Should work as a flashlight for a bit," he said, switching over to the app that lit up the camera's flash. The resultant illumination, clean and white, cast a steady glow for a few feet around them, rendering sharp shadows in its glare.

"Brilliant," Aravel said, patting his pocket. "And I've got mine in case yours runs low. We can switch out if we need to."

"Let's hope we don't," Dorian muttered as they started down the path into the darkness ahead.


	9. Chapter 9

His otherworld counterpart might be able to face this sort of thing without flinching -- complaining, yes, but not flinching -- but Dorian wasn't quite so inured. He found himself jumping at every strange sound, every whisper of movement in the brush that crowded close on either side. Thanks to the flat light of the mobile's flashlight app, every slight dip in the footpath appeared as a deep hole, and he finally gave up and reached for Aravel's hand as they walked. Aravel, at least, seemed more comfortable: then again, as he'd told Dorian once during one of their long evening chats, his family had often gone camping on holidays.

"Some big, bad Tevinter mage you are," Aravel said teasingly, but squeezed Dorian's hand.

"I don't _like_ the outdoors," Dorian replied, petulant. "I prefer to enjoy them from through a nice window, with a cup of tea at my elbow and a book in hand."

"We're not staying here all day." Aravel's voice bore an attempt at comfort, though Dorian could still hear the amusement in it. "Just until we find... hell, do we have _any_ idea what we're looking for?"

"Not the first clue." Dorian paused as a new scent reached him. Up until now he'd been aware of the typical smells of nature: green things, dirt, an occasional musky animal smell, something fetid like a nearby swamp. This new smell evoked something familiar in him, and he felt himself smile unexpectedly. 

"Do you--" Aravel started, looking at Dorian. He was beginning to smile as well.

Dorian nodded. "Smells like woodsmoke."

"Where there's smoke," Aravel said, and together they began to move more rapidly along the path.

* * *

Before long, the flicker of firelight appeared, clear enough that Dorian could turn off his mobile. The orange glow illuminated square windows, giving off enough light to describe the shape of a simple cabin, smoke drifting in lazy swirls from its chimneystack. Aravel's pace quickened; Dorian hurried with him, feeling a strange excitement taking hold of him. Though he was eager for this adventure to be at an end, some narcissistic part of him was looking forward to meeting his other self.

The footpath led straight to the cabin's door; Dorian glanced behind them, saw the faintly golden glow of the thread Morrigan had crafted, trailing along their path to terminate in the skein in Aravel's free hand. Good; they'd be able to see their way back. 

At the door, Aravel raised a hand, paused, then took in a breath before he knocked. He gave Dorian a wry glance. Dorian smiled back; he thought he could feel Aravel's pulse speeding through their joined hands. "Ready to meet the Inquisitor?" he murmured.

"No," Aravel said, with a quiet chuckle. "But imagine their faces," he added, and Dorian had to cover a snicker.

He could hear some noise coming from within, but so far he hadn't been able to make it out. Surely they'd heard the knock, though..? After a moment, he glanced at Aravel with a raised eyebrow. "They're in there," he said. "I can hear them."

"Maybe they can't hear us." Aravel took another breath and knocked, louder this time. "Hello the house!" he called, for good measure.

The noises from inside stopped all at once, and in the sudden silence, Dorian heard a snicker. _Oh_ , he thought, his eyes going wide. "Ah, maybe we should--"

"Who in the _world_ \--" snarled an all-too-familiar voice from within at the same moment, and the door swung open to reveal Aravel Lavellan -- the Inquisitor, so-called Herald of Andraste -- with a sheet wrapped around his hips and bloody murder in his eyes.

Aravel -- the one from the real world -- took a startled step back, just as the Inquisitor's face shifted, mouth dropping open in shock. Peering into the cabin, Dorian espied a figure in the huge bed that dominated the single room. Even though he'd been anticipating it, he still had to blink in momentary surprise at the sight of himself, clearly naked and well aroused, a blanket dragged over his lower body for modesty's sake.

"It's you," said the Inquisitor, his voice faint.

"It's me," Aravel agreed, swallowing hard. "Uh, look, we didn't mean to interrupt--"

The word 'we' seemed to get the other Aravel's attention, and his eyes tracked over to see Dorian standing there. Dorian felt a moment of disconcerting dissonance as the Inquisitor looked him up and down, seeming to take in everything -- the unusual clothes, the different bearing, the lack of a weapon -- before refocusing on Aravel.

"You're real," he said, and raked a hand through his hair in a gesture so familiar it made Dorian's heart hurt.

"I -- look, there's not a lot of time to explain," Aravel said. "We have to get you back home. I'm not even sure I understand it myself, but there's been some kind of spell--"

"Home?" The other Dorian had stood by this point, the blanket secured around him like a cloak; as he came closer to the door, his eyes showing clear confusion, he caught sight of Dorian -- _oh fuck me_ , Dorian thought, _pronouns are about to be an enormous pain in my ass_ \-- and went noticeably paler in the firelight. The Inquisitor turned to him, worry filling his eyes.

"Dorian," he murmured, and reached for the mage to urge him back to the bed to sit. As he got an arm around Dorian, navigating him back to the cabin, he looked back at the newcomers. "You might as well come in. I think we're going to have to trust you."

"I should _hope_ so," Dorian murmured, glancing at Aravel for reassurance. Aravel bit his lip and nodded.

* * *

"Once again, truly sorry for the interruption," Dorian said, once the Inquisitor and the other Dorian had put some clothes on; Aravel poured wine from a nearby stone jug for all of them and dragged up a bench for the two of them to sit. "And apologies in advance for having _no_ idea how to refer to everyone here when we all only share two names between us."

Aravel snorted, as did the Inquisitor; they shared a glance that felt only a little awkward.

"What is this about, then?" asked the Inquisitor. Dorian couldn't resist a glance at the elf's upturned left hand; he could see some odd markings in the skin of his palm, but the Anchor was quiescent for the moment. "You said we needed to go home, but that's where we are."

"Not at Skyhold, obviously," the other Dorian put in. "Cassandra suggested we take a little time to ourselves while they hunt down Corypheus. It's been rather stressful after the Winter Palace."

"But you know all this," the Inquisitor said. "Don't you?"

"We dreamed of everything that happened to you," Aravel replied. "Every night, whatever happened in your world..."

He trailed off; the Inquisitor and the other Dorian were looking at each other with dawning surprise.

"You too, eh?" Dorian said.

"I thought it was just a fanciful thing," his counterpart said. "Even when they persisted. It wasn't until... until the Fade--" He stopped short, inhaling, and the Inquisitor reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. "I saw you. Both of you!"

Dorian nodded, a breath going out of him. "And I did too, in my dream. You were looking in a mirror, and you saw me. I was at a concert, watching him perform." He indicated Aravel with a glance. "Obviously, we don't quite do the same things in each others' worlds."

"You keep saying that," the Inquisitor said. "Other worlds. What do you mean?"

"Do you remember when Morrigan took you to the place inside the eluvian?" Aravel asked by way of reply. When the Inquisitor nodded, his throat working, Aravel went on. "She said all of the mirrors connect, or used to, to other eluvians throughout Thedas. And maybe to other places as well. Well, one of those other places is my world -- our world," he amended, glancing briefly at Dorian. "And in our world, a lot of things are similar to yours. I play in a traveling band with several people you know. Sera, Blackwall, Iron Bull. Dorian works at a university with Felix Alexius."

"Whose father is not an evil Tevinter, just an overbearing lecturer," Dorian put in. By now, the other pair wore matching expressions of either shock or numbness; Dorian couldn't decide. "Look, you don't really have to understand all of this. The point is, you're not in Thedas. You're in another world that's attached to an eluvian."

"But..." the Inquisitor began, and then trailed off.

"How long have you been here?" Aravel asked. He bit his lip as the other Dorian exchanged looks with the Inquisitor.

"Three... four days?" the other Dorian said. "No, it's been at least a week. Hasn't it?"

"We lost track." Suddenly, the Inquisitor stood, letting go of the other Dorian's hand and beginning to pace around the cabin. "Dorian, we should have been on our way back to Skyhold by now. We can't afford to lounge around the way we have been."

"I'm beginning to think we were enchanted to believe we hadn't been here very long," the other Dorian replied, and he reached for a grimoire tucked into a pouch at his hip. "I don't think it'd be time magic, though, just a glamour of some kind..."

"Whatever it is," Aravel said, sounding frustrated now, "we have to get back through the eluvian. Morrigan is on the other side; she's waiting for us."

"How did _you_ get here?" the other Dorian said suddenly, looking up from his grimoire.

"Morrigan," Dorian replied, again finding himself unwilling to mention Flemeth. "She said our worlds are connected somehow. The longer you stay here, the more free rein Corypheus has to do whatever he wants. If he takes over your world, who's to say he won't come for ours next?"

The Inquisitor seemed to need no further argument. He'd already set aside his cup, barely touched; now he reached for a mail shirt and slithered into it. As he started to pull one boot on, though, the other Dorian rose, arms folding over his chest.

"I'm not so sure I believe you," he said. "You just show up out of nowhere, claiming to know all this information? You could be anyone. Demons can take any form, after all. Aravel--" Next to him, the Inquisitor paused, only one boot on. A huge two-handed sword rested against the fireplace, within far-too-easy reach.

Dorian swallowed hard, a sudden thud of fear making his heart race. Aravel shook his head slowly. "How would we know all the things we talked about otherwise?" he said. "The dreams--"

"Anything can be real in the Fade," the Inquisitor said. "If some fear demon saw what we dreamed, they could use it against us."

"A fear demon like the Nightmare?" Dorian asked in a sudden burst of inspiration. "The one Hawke sacrificed herself to so that you could escape?" As the Inquisitor's face crumpled -- _fuck, you had to find the worst example, didn't you_ \-- he turned to look at his counterpart. "And you were so upset because he sent you out ahead of him. You thought -- you told him, 'This is it. This is where I lose you forever.'"

As if catching on, Aravel nodded. "And the first time you kissed. It was after coming back from Redcliffe, after seeing his father." He addressed the Inquisitor now, the other Lavellan staring at him with wide eyes. "You told him you thought he was brave. That didn't happen in any dream or in the Fade. That was in Skyhold, right in the atrium where Dorian keeps all his books."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian saw the Inquisitor's hand steal into the other Dorian's. "Should we go on?" he asked. "The first time you made love--"

"After he got back the amulet for you," Aravel put in. Dorian was gratified to see his other self go a little red.

"No demon could know that," the Inquisitor said, stopping them before they could continue. He swallowed hard, then nodded. "All right. We'll trust you for now."

"That's all we ask," Aravel said.

* * *

In no time at all, it seemed, the Inquisitor and the other Dorian had finished getting together what few things they'd brought with them -- no supplies for a camping trip, Dorian noted, but then they hadn't expected to somehow get tricked into falling into a magic mirror and being trapped in a fantasy.

At the door of the cabin, the Inquisitor sighed, glancing back inside. "We should have realized it was a trick. We'd never get that much time to ourselves in the real world."

Dorian pretended not to notice as his other self gathered the Inquisitor into his arms for a brief embrace. "You have the yarn?" he asked Aravel instead. Aravel nodded, holding up the glowing skein.

* * *

Dorian would have sworn they'd walked for ten minutes, fifteen at the most, before finding the cabin. Generally, it seemed to him that traveling back from somewhere never seemed to take as long as getting there in the first place. This time was proving the exception, however. 

"Shouldn't we be there by now?" he murmured to Aravel, glancing surreptitiously at his mobile -- time was hardly relevant here, but the mobile still counted seconds in an orderly fashion -- to see how long they'd been on the path headed back toward the eluvian. The last time he'd checked, the phone had shown a time of 11:52. Now it read 12:31.

"We're walking straight toward it," Aravel replied. He was reeling in the yarn as they went; the long unbroken line of it lay along the path, straight and clear.

At least it did until it stopped suddenly, the severed end laying naked on the ground. Aravel lifted it up, blinking in confusion at the frayed strand.

"This isn't supposed to--" he said, and behind them, their otherworld selves stopped as well. The other Dorian had lit up the tip of his staff to light their path; in that clear glow, Dorian saw no sign of the eluvian through which they'd come.

"It was _right here_ ," Aravel said, futile.

"Let me see--" The other Dorian stepped up beside him and held out a hand, muttering an incantation under his breath. At the same time, a shivering howl sounded out in the darkness to their left, making Dorian jump. Behind them, the Inquisitor unsheathed his sword, the metal ringing. Now they had an additional source of light: the rune in the sword lit up the blade with crackling red energy, casting an eerie illumination on the surrounding foliage.

"Just so you know, neither of us are trained for this kind of thing," Dorian said, disgusted at the quaver in his voice.

"Hopefully it won't come to that," the Inquisitor replied. "Dorian! What's the situation?"

Dorian opened his mouth, about to reply, when the other Dorian spoke up. "It's here, but it's concealed. I can't dispel the glamour easily--"

Aravel held up the yarn, offering it to the other Dorian. "Morrigan said to use this if we needed to get back in a hurry," he said.

"She said to _pull on it_ ," Dorian hissed. "We can't do that if she's not holding the other end--"

"No, I can do something with this," said the other Dorian, as another howl rang out from their right, and another sound joined it: this one wet, snuffling, and weirdly cold.

"Whatever you're going to do, do it fast," the Inquisitor snapped.

"I'm _working_ , _amatus_ ," the mage muttered, and Aravel and Dorian shared a look. If he hadn't been so scared, Dorian would have grinned.

"They sound just like us," he whispered instead.

Aravel squeezed his hand. "Why do you think that is?" he replied, equally low-voiced.

"Someday we'll have to figure out how this was even possible--"

"Got it!" the other Dorian interrupted in a gloating voice, just as a growl rippled out of the darkness right behind them. "Everyone grab hold!"

He tossed out a length of the glowing yarn; the Inquisitor took one end, and, trying to contain his own trepidation, Dorian closed his hand on the middle section, Aravel's hand finding a place next to his. The other Dorian held the remainder of the skein; whatever he was doing charged the thing with magic, making the whole ball of yarn glow brighter and brighter until--

A surge of energy pulsed through the glowing strand. "Hold on!" Dorian heard his counterpart shout, as the wind whipped up and something ran at them out of the darkness with a chilling yell--

* * *

The stone-flagged flooring of the place between worlds came up and smacked him in the face.

"Fuck!" Dorian heard Aravel say from somewhere close by. He sat up and rubbed gravel from his cheek, wincing and looking around until he saw Aravel: the elf was pushing himself up from where he'd landed prone on the ground.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Is _he_ all right?" said the voice just like his, sounding indignant as all hell. Dorian craned his neck and raised an eyebrow, seeing the Tevinter mage and the Inquisitor standing over them; the other Dorian was pale and leaning hard on his staff for support.

"Looks like _you_ managed to land on your feet," Dorian muttered. Smiling, the Inquisitor stepped forward and offered him a hand up, then did the same for Aravel. 

"There you are!" cried another voice; footsteps sounded over the stone as Morrigan came jogging up to them, her eyes wide. "I've been trying to find another eluvian that worked. The spell I gave you--"

"Someone broke it," the other Dorian said regretfully, offering her what remained of the yarn. It had lost its glow entirely now; Morrigan raised an eyebrow, then waved her hand over the other Dorian's outstretched palm, dispelling the yarn with a gesture.

"It still seems to have served its purpose in returning you here," she said. "Well done you, for finding a way to make use of its properties after all. What happened? Were you trapped?"

The Inquisitor and the other Dorian exchanged glances; then the Inquisitor nodded. "In a manner of speaking, yes. It must have been a desire demon's work to keep us in a place we wouldn't want to leave. We should destroy that mirror and go, quickly. I don't want to think about what Corypheus has been up to while we've been gone."

Morrigan nodded, stepping away from the eluvian; taking the hint, Dorian did as well, dragging Aravel back with him. "Care to do the honors, Inquisitor?" the witch asked with an insouciant smile. His own lips curling in a dangerous smirk, the Inquisitor raised his sword and brought the blade down hard against the eluvian's glass. Dorian flinched, threw a hand up to protect his face; fortunately, the shattering glass fell in only a small arc, dull shards gleaming from the stone at the base of the mirror.

"I've one more task before we return to Skyhold," Morrigan said, then, and Dorian inhaled as she turned toward them. "You two have fulfilled your work most admirably, and I thank you for it -- as does all of Thedas, even if they never know what happened here."

"You have my thanks as well," added the Inquisitor, with a gracious nod as he re-sheathed his sword. "If not for your intervention, we might have been lost there forever."

"A far-too-tempting prospect," the other Dorian put in, and bowed briefly. "I thank you, too."

Morrigan inhaled; Dorian thought he saw a flicker of annoyance in her strangely green-gold eyes and had to hide a smile of amusement. "However," she went on, "the connection to your world remains. It was the reason you dreamt of Thedas, at least until your counterparts here were trapped. That connection must be destroyed, or your world's safety remains at risk."

"Of course," Aravel replied. "I don't know if that's something we can do, though."

"No." This time Morrigan's lips twitched with a dry amusement. "No, this is my task, and must be completed quickly. As soon as you are on the other side of the eluvian, get away from it." She began striding back along the path that led to the mirror through which they'd come; after a moment, Aravel hurried after her, with Dorian in close pursuit. "I will deactivate it from this side and then close the connection permanently."

"Which means we won't have the dreams anymore," Dorian concluded. 

Morrigan glanced sharply at him, then looked ahead once more as they approached the eluvian that led back to Oxford. "In fact, you may not even remember what transpired here today."

Aravel frowned a little. "Kind of be a shame to forget all this."

"It may also be a blessing in disguise," the other Dorian commented. He and the Inquisitor had followed, slower; he was leaning on the elf, clearly exhausted from the strength of magic he'd employed to return them here. "I wouldn't wish to remember some of the things I've seen in my time with the Inquisition."

"Then this might be the last time we'll see you again," Dorian said. "I -- I think I'll miss you."

"I know I will," Aravel said. "If it wasn't for the dreams, I wouldn't have met him, after all." He reached for Dorian's hand on the word _him_ ; Dorian smiled briefly, wrapped his fingers around Aravel's hand. The other Dorian's eyebrow went up and he smiled, too, a look of surprise and faint pleasure crossing his face.

"You see?" the Inquisitor said softly to him. "In any world, any time..."

"Enough of sentiment," Morrigan drawled, her eyes rolling so hard Dorian half-expected to see them jump out of their sockets. "If you please, gentlemen?" She gestured to the eluvian; its surface lit up, glittering azure.

"Good luck," Aravel said, and lifted a hand to the others in farewell before he turned to step through the mirror. Feeling somewhat reluctant to go, Dorian followed.

* * *

After the misty grey of the place between worlds, the Renaissance room in the Ashmolean was brightly lit, and Dorian blinked, disoriented, at the familiar paintings and statues.

"Come on," Aravel was saying, pulling him away from the mirror. "Remember what Morrigan said--"

They'd made it across the room when a sudden empty sound burst against Dorian's ears; the closest comparison he could think of was a sonic boom, but with no actual boom in it. He sat down hard, boneless, on the bench where he'd met Flemeth; Aravel all but fell next to him. 

The wall where the eluvian had been mounted was empty. Only the card attempting to classify the mirror remained.

"They're going to think we stole it," Dorian said, and began to giggle helplessly. After a moment, Aravel joined him, leaning hard on his shoulder.

"We went to another world," he said, when the laughing fit had passed. "We stood in a different dimension."

" _Two_ different dimensions," Dorian pointed out.

"And we still remember." Sitting upright, Aravel bit his lip, watching Dorian. "Do you think it'll fade?"

"Maybe." Dorian inhaled, thoughtful, then reached to take Aravel's hand, their fingers threading automatically. Aravel's long, slender fingers, brown skin darker against his own, callused fingertips whose touch Dorian had come to cherish -- Dorian smiled and brought their joined hands up to brush a kiss over Aravel's knuckles. "But even if we forget what happened there, or the dreams... I've still got you. You and I, we're real. Nothing will change that."

"Thank the Maker," Aravel said with a relieved smile. He tipped his head in to kiss Dorian; a moment later, though, Dorian pulled back with wide eyes.

"The _Maker_?" he repeated.

Aravel grinned. "Got you."

Dorian couldn't even be mad. "That you do," he murmured, and tugged Aravel close again.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [ghostoftheyear.tumblr.com](http://ghostoftheyear.tumblr.com).


End file.
